The  Plays  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck 


SECOND    SERIES 


THE  PLAYS 


OF 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

SECOND    SERIES 

ALLADINE    AND    PALOMIDES  •  PEL- 
LEAS    AND    MELISANDE  •  HOME  • 
THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

TRANSLATED    BV 

RICHARD   HOVEY 


New  York 

DUFFIELD  &   COMPANY 

1906 


J\j-J 


V  '• 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
STONE  AND   KIMBALL 


TA/s  edition  published  igob  by 
Duffield  df  Company 


K>A>U-Ot-v-ij 


/^f//r 


The  Trow  Press,  N.  Y. 


Hi 

Contents 


» 

PAGE 

PREFACE  (by  Maurice  Maeterlinck)     ...  ix 

ALLADINE   AND   PALOMIDES 5 

piSllieas  and  MELISANDE 6l 

HOME        ... 167 

THE   DEATH   OF   TINTAGILES I97 


845852 


Preface. 

/^N  m'a  demand^  plus  d'une  fois  si  mes 
^-^  drames,  de  La  Prinasse  Maleine  a  La 
Mortde  Tintagiles^  avaient  ^t^  r^ellement  Merits 
pour  un  theatre  de  marionettes,  ainsi  que  je 
Tavais  affirm^  dans  I'^dition  originale  de  cette 
sauvage  petite  l^gende  des  malheurs  de  Maleine. 
En  v^rit^,  ils  ne  furent  pas  Merits  pour  des 
acteurs  ordinaires.  II  n'y  avait  la  nul  d^sir 
ironique  et  pas  la  moindre  humility  non  plus. 
Je  croyais  sincerement  et  je  crois  encore  au- 
jourd'hui,  que  les  po^mes  meurent  lorsque  des 
etres  vivants  s'y  introduisent.  Un  jour,  dans, 
un  ^crit  dont  je  ne  retrouve  plus  que  quelques 
fragments  mutiMs,  j^ai  essay^  d'expliquer  ces 
choses  qui  dorment,  sans  doute,  au  fond  de 
notre  instinct  et  qu'il  est  bien  difficile  de  r^- 
veiller  compl^teraent.  J'y  constatais  d'abord, 
qu'une  inquietude  nous  attendait  a  tout  spec- 
tacle auquel  nous  assistions  et  qu'une  deception 
a  peu  pr^s  ineffable  accompagnait  toujours  la 
chute  du  rideau.  N'est-il  pas  evident  que  le 
Macbeth  ou  T Hamlet  que  nous  voyons  sur 
la  scene  ne  ressemble  pas  au  Macbeth  ou  a 


X  Preface. 

r Hamlet  du  livre?  Qu'il  a  visiblement  retro- 
grade dans  le  sublime?  Qu'une  grande  partie 
des  eiforts  du  poete  qui  voulait  cr^er  avant  tout 
une  vie  sup^rieure,  une  vie  plus  proche  de 
notre  ame,  a  ^t^  annul^e  par  une  force  ennemie 
qui  ne  peut  se  manifester  qu'en  ramenant  cette 
vie  sup^rieure  au  niveau  de  la  vie  ordinaire? 
II  y  a  peut-etre,  lAe  disais-je,  aux  sources  de 
ce  malaise,  un  tres  ancien  malentendu,  a  la 
suite  duquel  le  theatre  ne  fut  jamais  exactement 
ce  qu'il  est  dans  I'instinct  de  la  foule,  a  savoir : 
le  temple  du  Reve,  II  faut  admettre,  ajoutai-je, 
que  le  theatre,  du  moins  en  ses  tendances,  est 
un  art.  Mais  je  n'y  trouve  pas  la  marque  des 
autres  arts.  L'art  use  toujours  d'un  detour 
et  n'agit  pas  directement.  II  a  pour  mission 
supreme  la  revelation  de  I'infini  et  de  la  gran- 
deur ainsi  que  la  beauts  secrete,  de  Thomme. 
Mais  montrer  au  doigt  a  F enfant  qui  nous  ac- 
compagne,  les  ^toiles  d'une  nuit  de  Juillet,  ce 
n'est  pas  faire  une  oeuvre  d'art.  H  faut  que 
Tart  agisse  comme  les  abeilles.  Elles  n'ap- 
portent  pas  aux  larves  de  la  ruche  les  fleurs 
des  champs  qui  renferment  leur  avenir  et  leur 
vie.  Les  larves  mourraient  sous  ces  fleurs  sans 
se  douter  de  rien.  II  faut  que  les  abeilles  nour- 
ricieres  apportent  a  ces  nymphes  aveugles  Tame 
meme  de  ces  fleurs,  et  c'est  alors  seulement 
qu'elles  trouveront  sans  le  savoir  en  ce  miel  mys- 


Preface.  xi 

t^rieux  la  substance  des  ailes  qui  un  jour  les 
emporteront  a  leur  tour  dans  I'espace.  Or,  le 
poeme  ^tait  une  oeuvre  d'art  et  portait  ces 
obliques  et  admirables  marques.  Mais  la  repre- 
sentation vient  le  contredire.  Elle  chasse  vrai- 
ment  les  cygnes  du  grand  lac,  et  elle  rejette  les 
perles  dans  I'abime.  Elle  remet  les  choses 
exactement  au  point  ou  elles  ^talent  avant 
la  venue  du  poete.  La  density  mystique  de 
I'oeuvre  d'art  a  disparue.  Elle  verse  dans  la 
meme  erreur  que  celui  qui  apr^s  avoir  vant6 
a  ses  auditeurs  Tadmirable  Annonciation  de 
Vinci,  par  exemple,  s'imaginerait  qu'il  a  fait 
p^n^trer  dans  leurs  ames  la  beauts  surnaturelle 
de  oette  peinture  en  reproduisant,  en  un  tableau 
vivant,  tous  les  details  du  grand  chef-d'oeuvre 
florentin. 

Qui  sait  si  ce  n'est  pas  pour  ces  raisons 
cach^es  que  Ton  est  oblige  de  s'avouer  que 
la  plupart  des  grands  poemes  de  Thumanit^  ne 
sont  pas  sc^niques?  Lear,  Hamlet,  Othello, 
Macbeth,  Antoine  et  Cleopdtre,  ne  peuvent  etre 
repr^sent^s,  et  il  est  dangereux  de  les  voir  sur 
la  scene.  Quelque  chose  d' Hamlet  est  mort 
pour  nous  du  jour  ou  nous  I'avons  vu  mourir 
sous  nos  yeux.  Le  spectre  d'un  acteur  I'a 
d^tron^,  et  nous  ne  pouvons  plus  ^carter  I'usur- 
pateur  de  nos  reves.  Ouvrez  les  portes,  ouvrez 
le  livre,  le  prince  ant^rieur  ne  re  vient  plus.     II 


xii  Preface. 

a  perdu  la  faculty  de  vivre  selon  la  beauts  la  plus 
secrete  de  notre  ame.  Parfois  son  ombre  passe 
encore  en  tremblaiit  sur  le  seuil,  mais  d^sormais 
il  n'ose  plus,  il  ne  pent  plus  entrer ;  et  bien  des 
voix  sont  mortes  qui  Tacclamaient  en  nous. 

Je  me  souviens  de  cette  mort  de  THamlet  de 
mes  reves.  Un  soir  j'ouvris  la  porte  a  Tusur- 
pateur  du  poeme.  L'acteur  ^tait  illustre.  II 
entra.  Un  seul  de  ses  regards  me  montra  qu'il 
n'etait  pas  Hamlet.  II  ne  le  fut  pas  un  seul 
instant  pour  moi.  Je  le  vis  s'agiter  durant  trois 
heures  dans  le  mensonge.  Je  voyais  claire- 
ment  qu^il  avait  ses  propres  destinies;  et 
celles  qu'il  voulait  repr^senter  m'^taient  indi- 
ciblement  indiff<^rentes  a  cot^  des  siennes.  Je 
voyais  sa  sant6  et  ses  habitudes,  ses  passions  et 
ses  tristesses,  ses  pens^es  et  ses  oeuvres,  et  il 
essayait  vainement  de  m'int^resser  a  une  vie 
qui  n'etait  pas  la  sienne  et  que  sa  seule  pre- 
sence avait  rendue  factice.  Depuis  je  le  revois 
lorsque  j'ouvre  le  livre  et  Elsinore  n'est  plus 
le  palais  d'autrefois.  .  .  . 

*^La  v^rit^/'  dit  quelque  part  Charles  Lamb, 
"  la  v^rite  est  que  les  caract^res  de  Shakespeare 
sont  tellement  des  objets  de  meditation  plutot 
que  d*interet  ou  de  curiosity  relativement  a 
leurs  actes,  que,  tandis  que  nous  lisons  Tun 
de  ses  grands  caracteres  criminels,  —  Mac- 
beth, Richard,  lago  meme,  —  nous  ne  songeons 


Preface.  xiii 

pas  tant  aux  crimes  quails  commettent,  qu'^ 
Tambition,  k  Tesprit  d^aspiration,  a  Tactivit^ 
intellectuelle  qui  les  poussent  a  franchir  ces 
barri^res  morales.  Les  actions  nous  affectent 
si  peu,  que,  tandis  que  les  impulsions,  I'esprit 
int^rieur  en  toute  sa  perverse  grandeur,  pa- 
raissent  seuls  r^els  et  appellent  seuls  I'attention, 
le  crime  n'est  comparativement  rien.  Mais 
lorsque  nous  voyons  repr^senter  ces  choses,  les 
actes  sont  comparativement  tout,  et  les  mobiles 
ne  sont  plus  rien.  L'^motion  sublime  ou  nous 
sommes  entrain^s  par  ces  images  de  nuit  et 
d'horreur  qu'exprime  Macbeth;  ce  solennel 
prelude  ou  il  s'oublie  jusqu'a  ce  que  Thorloge 
Sonne  Pheure  qui  doit  Tappeler  au  meurtre  de 
Duncan ;  lorsque  nous  ne  lisons  plus  cela  dans 
un  livre,  lorsque  nous  avons  abandonn^  ce  poste 
avantageux  de  I'abstraction  d'ou  la  lecture 
domine  la  vision,  et  lorsque  nous  voyons  sous 
nos  yeux,  un  homme  en  sa  forme  corporelle  se 
preparer  actuellement  au  meurtre ;  si  le  jeu  de 
Tacteur  est  vrai  et  puissant,  la  p^nible  anxi^t^ 
au  sujet  de  Tacte,  le  naturel  d^sir  de  le  pr^venir 
tout  qu'il  ne  semble  pas  accompli,  la  trop  puis- 
sante  apparence  de  r^alit^,  provoquent  un  mal- 
aise et  une  inquietude  qui  d^truisent  totalement 
le  plaisir  que  les  mots  apportent  dans  le  livre, 
ou  Tacte  ne  nous  oppresse  jamais  de  la  p^nible 
sensation  de  sa  presence,  et  semble  plutot  appar- 


XIV  Preface. 

tenir  a  Thistoire ;  a  quelque  chose  de  pass^  et 
d'in^vitable." 

Charles  Lamb  a  raison,  et  pour  mille  raisons 
bien  plus  profondes  encore  que  celles  qu'il  nous 
donne.  Le  theatre  est  le  lieu  ou  meurent  la  plu- 
part  des  chefs-d'oeuvre,  parce  que  la  represen- 
tation d'un  chef-d'oeuvre  a  Taide  d'^l^ments 
accidentels  et  humains  est  antinomique.  Tout 
chef-d'oeuvre  est  un  symbole,  et  le  symbole  ne 
supporte  pas  la  presence  active  de  I'homme.  II 
suffit  que  le  coq  chante,  dit  Hamlet,  pour  que 
les  spectres  de  la  nuit  s'^vanouissent.  Et  de 
meme,  le  poeme  perd  sa  vie  "  de  la  seconde 
sphere  "  lorsqu'un  etre  de  la  sphere  inf^rieure 
s'y  introduit.  L'accident  ramene  le  symbole  a 
Taccident ;  et  le  chef-d'oeuvre,  en  son  essence, 
est  mort  durant  le  temps  de  cette  presence  et 
de  ses  traces. 

Les  Grecs  n'ignorerent  pas  cette  antinomic,  et 
leurs  masques  que  nous  ne  comprenons  plus, 
ne  servaient  probablement  qu'a  att^nuer  la 
presence  de  I'homme  et  a  soulager  le  symbole. 
Aux  ^poques  ou  le  theatre  eut  une  vie  veritable, 
il  la  dut  peut-etre  uniquement  a  quelque  cir- 
constance  ou  a  quelque  artifice  qui  venait  en 
aide  du  poeme  dans  sa  lutte  contre  I'homme. 
Ainsi,  sous  Elisabeth,  par  exemple,  la  declama- 
tion etait  une  sorte  de  m^lop^e,  le  jeu  ^tait 
conventionnel,  et  la  scene  aussi.     II  en  ^tait  a 


Preface.  xv 

peu  pr^s  de  meme  sous  Louis  XIV.  Le  poeme 
se  retire  a  mesure  que  rhomme  s'avance.  Le 
poeme  veut  nous  arracher  du  pouvoir  de  nos 
sens  et  faire  predominer  le  passe  et  I'avenir; 
rhomme,  au  contraire,  n'agit  que  sur  nos  sens  et 
n'existe  que  pour  autant  qu*il  puisse  effacer  cette 
predomination.  S'il  entre  en  scene  avec  toutes 
ses  puissances,  et  libre  comme  s'il  entrait  dans 
une  foret ;  si  sa  voix,  ses  gestes,  et  son  attitude 
ne  sont  pas  voil^es  par  un  grand  nombre  de  con- 
ventions synth^tiques ;  si  Ton  apergoit  un  seul 
instant  I'etre  vivant  qu'il  est  et  Tame  qu'il 
possede,  —  il  n'y  a  pas  de  poeme  au  monde  qui 
ne  recule  devant  lui.  A  ce  moment  precis,  le 
spectacle  du  poeme  s'interrompt  et  nous  assis- 
tons  a  une  scene  de  la  vie  ext^rieure,  qui,  de 
meme  qu'une  scene  de  la  rue,  de  la  riviere,  ou 
du  champ  de  bataille,  a  ses  beaut^s  ^ternelles 
et  secretes,  mais  qui  est  n^anmoins  impuissante 
a  nous  arracher  du  present,  parce  qu'en  cet 
instant  nous  n'avons  pas  la  quality  pour  aperce- 
voir  ces  beaut^s  invisibles,  qui  ne  sont  que  **  des 
fleurs  offertes  aux  vers  aveugles." 

Et  c'est  pour  ces  raisons,  et  pour  d'autres 
encore  qu*on  pourrait  rechercher  dans  les 
memes  parages,  que  j 'avals  destin^  mes  petits 
drames  a  des  etres  indulgents  aux  poemes,  et 
que,  faute  de  mieux,  j'appelle  "  Marionettes." 

Maurice  Maeterlinck. 


Alladine  and  Palomides. 

To   Camille  Mauclab 


Persons. 

Ablamore. 

AsTOLAiNE,  daughter  of  Ablamore. 

Alladine. 

Palomides. 

The  Sisters  of  Palomides. 

A  Physician. 

[Note  :  The  translation  of  Ablamore's  song  is  taken 
from  the  version  of  this  play  made  by  the  editors  of 
"  Poet-lore."  R.  H.] 


Alladine  and  Palomides. 


ACT   FIRST. 

A  wild  part  of  the  gardens,     Ablamore   dis^ 
covered  leaning  over  Alladine,  who  is  asleep. 

ABLAMORE. 

Methinks  sleep  reigns  day  and  night  beneath 
these  trees.  Each  time  she  comes  here  with 
me  toward  nightfall,  she  is  hardly  seated  when 
she  falls  asleep.  Alas  !  I  must  be  glad  even  of 
that.  .  .  .  During  the  day,  whene'er  I  speak  to 
her  and  her  look  happens  to  encounter  mine, 
it  is  hard  as  a  slave's  to  whom  a  thing  impossi- 
ble has  just  been  bidden.  .  .  .  Yet  that  is  not 
her  customary  look.  ...  I  have  seen  her  many 
times  resting  her  beautiful  eyes  on  children,  on 
the  forest,  the  sea,  or  her  surroundings.  She 
smiles  at  me  as  one  smiles  on  a  foe;  and  I 
dare  not  bend  over  her  save  at  times  when  her 
eyes  can  no  longer  see  me.  ...  I  have  a  few 
moments  every  evening ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
day  I  live  beside  her  with  my  eyes  cast  down. 
•  .  .  It  is  sad   to   love   too  late.  .  .  .  Maids 


6  Aliadine  and  Palomides. 

cannot  understand  that  years  do  not  separate 
hearts.  .  .  .  They  have  called  me  "The  wise 
King/*  ...  I  was  wise  because  till  now  nothing 
had  happened  to  me.  .  .  .  There  are  men  who 
seem  to  turn  events  aside.  It  was  enough  that 
I  should  be  about  for  nothing  to  be  able  to 
have  birth.  ...  I  had  suspected  it  of  old.  .  .  . 
In  the  time  oi  my  youth,  I  had  many  friends 
whose  presence  seemed  to  attract  every  adven- 
ture ;  but  the  days  when  I  went  forth  with 
them,  for  the  encounter  of  joys  or  sorrows,  they 
came  back  again  with  empty  hands.  ...  I 
think  I  palsied  fate ;  and  I  long  took  pride  in 
this  gift.  One  lived  under  cover  in  my  reign. 
.  .  .  But  now  I  have  recognized  that  misfortune 
itself  is  better  worth  than  sleep,  and  that  there 
must  be  a  life  more  active  and  higher  than 
waiting.  .  .  .  They  shall  see  that  I  too  have 
strength  to  trouble,  when  I  will,  the  water  that 
seems  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  caldrons 
of  the  future.  .  .  .  Aliadine,  Aliadine  !  .  .  . 
Oh  !  she  is  lovely  so,  her  hair  over  the  flowers 
and  over  her  pet  lamb,  her  lips  apart  and 
fresher  than  the  morn.  ...  I  will  kiss  her 
without  her  knowing,  holding  back  my  poor 
white  beard.  .  .  .  ^Z/e  kisses  herJ]  —  She 
smiled.  .  .  .  Should  I  pity  her?  For  the  few 
years  she  gives  me,  she  will  some  day  be  queen  ; 
and  I  shall  have  done  a  little  good  before  I  go 
away.  .  .  .  They  will  be  astonished.  .  .  .  She 
herself  does  not  know.  ...  Ah !  here  she 
wakes  with  a  start.  .  .  .  Where  are  you  coming 
from,  Aliadine? 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  7 

ALLADINE. 

I  have  had  a  bad  dream.  ... 

ABLAMORE. 

What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you  look  yonder  ? 

ALLADINE. 

Some  one  went  by  upon  the  road. 

ABLAMORE. 

I  heard  nothing. 

ALLADINE. 

I  tell  you  some  one  is  coming.  .  .  .  There 
he  is  !  \^She  points  out  a  young  knight  coming 
forward  through  the  trees  and  holding  his  horse 
by  the  bridle, '\  Do  not  take  me  by  the  hand ;  I 
am  not  afraid.  ...  He  has  not  seen  us.  .  .  . 

ABLAMORE. 

Who  dares  come  here?  ...  If  I  did  not 
know  ...  I  believe  it  is  Palomides.  ...  It  is 
Astolaine's  betrothed.  .  .  .  He  has  raised  his 
head.  ...  Is  it  you,  Palomides? 

Enter  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

Yes,  my  father  ...  If  I  am  suffered  yet  to 
call  you  by  that  name  ...  I  come  hither  be- 
fore the  day  and  the  hour 


Alladine  and  Palomides. 


ABLAMORE. 


You  are  a  welcome  guest,  whatever  hour  it  be. 
.  .  .  But  what  has  happened?  We  did  not 
expect  you  for  two  days  yet.  ...  Is  Astolaine 
here,  too  ?  .  .  . 


PALOMIDES. 


No;  she  will  come  to-morrow.  We  have 
journeyed  day  and  night.  She  was  tired  and 
begged  me  to  come  on  before.  .  .  .  Are  my 
sisters  come? 


ABLAMORE. 

They  have  been  here  three  days  waiting 
for  your  wedding.  —  You  look  very  happy, 
Palomides.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

Who  would  not  be  happy,  to  have  found 
what  he  sought?  I  was  sad  of  old.  But  now 
the  days  seem  lighter  and  more  sweet  than 
harmless  birds  in  the  hand.  .  .  .  And  if  old 
moments  come  again  by  chance,  I  draw  near 
Astolaine,  and  you  would  think  I  threw  a 
window  open  on  the  dawn.  .  .  .  She  has  a  soul 
that  can  be  seen  around  her,  —  that  takes  you 
in  its  arms  like  an  ailing  child  and  without  say- 
ing anything  to  you  consoles  you  for  everything. 
...  I  shall  never  understand  it  at  all.  —  I  do 
not  know  how  it  can  all  be  ;  but  my  knees  bend 
in  spite  of  me  when  I  speak  of  it.  .  .  . 


AUadine  and  Palomides.  9 

ALLADINE. 

I  want  to  go  in  again. 

ABLAMORE. 

\_Seeing  that  Alladine  and  Palomides  look  at 
each  other  stealthily, '\  This  is  little  Alladine 
who  has  come  hither  from  the  heart  of  Arcady. 
.  .  .  Take  hands.  .  .  Does  that  astonish  you, 
Palomides?  .  .  . 

palomides. 
My  father  .  .  . 

[Palomides*  horse  starts  aside ^  frightening 
Alladine's  lamb,'\ 

ABLAMORE. 

Take  care.  .  .  .  Your  horse  has  frightened 
Alladine' s  lamb.  .  .  .  He  will  run  away.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

No ;  he  never  runs  away.  .  .  .  He  has  been 
startled,  but  he  will  not  run  away.  .  .  .  It  is  a 
lamb  my  godmother  gave  me.  .  .  .  He  is  not 
like  others.  .  .  .  He  stays  beside  me  night  and 
day.  \Caressing  it, 

PALOMIDES  {also  caresstng  ii) . 
He  looks  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a  child.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

He  understands  everything  that  happens.  .  .  . 


lo         AUadine  and  Palomides. 

ABLAMORE. 

It  is  time  to  go  find  your  sisters,  Palomides. 
.  .  .  They  will  be  astonished  to  see  you.  .  .  . 

ALLADINK. 

They  have  gone  every  day  to  the  turning  of 
the  road.  ...  I  have  gone  with  them;  but 
they  did  not  hope  yet.  .  .  . 

ABLAMORE. 

Come ;  Palomides  is  covered  with  dust,  and 
he  must  be  weary.  .  .  .  We  have  too  many 
things  to  say  to  each  other  to  talk  here.  .  .  .  We 
will  say  them  to-morrow.  .  .  .  They  claim  the 
morn  is  wiser  than  the  evening.  ...  I  see  the 
palace  gates  are  open  and  seem  to  wait  for 
us.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

I  cannot  help  being  uneasy  when  I  go  back 
into  the  palace.  ...  It  is  so  big,  and  I  am  so 
little,  and  I  get  lost  there  still.  .  .  .  And  then  all 
those  windows  on  the  sea.  .  .  .  You  cannot  . 
count  them.  .  .  .  And  the  corridors  that  turn 
without  reason,  and  others  that  never  turn,  but 
lose  themselves  between  the  walls.  .  .  .  And 
the  halls  I  dare  not  go  into.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

We  will  go  in  everywhere.  .  .  • 

ALLADINE. 

You  would  think  I  was  not  made  to  dwell 
there, — that  it   was   not   built    for   me.  .  .  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  1 1 

Once  I  lost  my  way  there.  ...  I  pushed  open 
thirty  doors,  before  I  found  the  Hght  of  day 
again.  .  .  .  And  I  could  not  go  out ;  the  last 
door  opened  on  a  pool.  .  .  .  And  the  vaults  that 
are  cold  all  summer;  and  the  galleries  that 
bend  back  on  themselves  endlessly.  .  .  .  There 
are  stairways  that  lead  nowhere  and  terraces 
from  which  nothing  can  be  seen 

ABLAMORE. 

You  who  were  not  wont  to  talk,  how  you  talk 
to-night !  •  .  . 

\Exeunt 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  I.  —  Alladine  discovered^  her  forehead 
against  one  of  the  windows  that  open  on  the 
park.     Enter  Ablamore. 

ABLAMORE. 

Alladine.  .  .  . 

alladine  {turning  abruptly) . 
What  is  it? 

ABLAMORE. 

Oh,  how  pale  you  are  !  .  .  .  Are  you  ill  ? 

ALLADINE. 

No. 

ABLAMORE. 

What  is  it  in  the  park  ?  —  Were  you  looking 
at  the  avenue  of  fountains  that  unfolds  before 
your  windows  ?  —  They  are  wonderful  and 
weariless.  They  were  raised  there  one  by  one, 
at  the  death  of  each  of  my  daughters.  ...  At 
night  I  hear  them  singing  in  the  garden.  .  .  . 
They  bring  to  mind  the  lives  they  represent, 
and  I  can  tell  their  voices  apart.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

I  know. 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  13 

ABLAMORE. 

You  must  pardon  me ;  I  sometimes  repeat 
the  same  things  and  my  memory  is  less  trust- 
worthy. ...  It  is  not  age ;  I  am  not  an  old 
man  yet,  thank  God  !  but  kings  have  a  thou- 
sand cares.  Palomides  has  been  telling  me 
his  adventures.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Ah! 

ABLAMORE. 

He  has  not  done  what  he  would ;  young 
people  have  no  will  any  more.  —  He  astonishes 
me.  I  had  chosen  him  among  a  thousand  for 
my  daughter.  He  should  have  had  a  soul  as 
deep  as  hers.  —  He  has  done  nothing  which 
may  not  be  excusable,  but  I  had  hoped  more. 
•  .  .  What  do  you  say  of  him  ? 

ALLADINE. 

Who? 

ABLAMORE. 

Palomides  ? 

ALLADINE. 

I  have  only  seen  him  one  evening.  .  •  . 

ABLAMORE. 

He  astonishes  me.  —  Everything  has  suc- 
ceeded with  him  till  now.  He  would  under- 
take a  thing  and  accomplish  it  without  a  word. 
—  He  would  get  out  of  danger  without  an  effort, 
while    others   could  not  open  a   door  without 


\ 


14         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

finding  death  behind  it.  —  He  was  of  those 
whom  events  seem  to  await  on  their  knees. 
But  a  little  while  ago  something  snapped.  You 
would  say  he  has  no  longer  the  same  star,  and 
every  step  he  takes  carries  him  further  from 
himself. —  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  —  He  does 
not  seem  to  be  at  all  aware,  but  others  can  re- 
mark it.  .  .  .  Let  us  speak  of  something  else : 
look  !  the  night  comes ;  I  see  it  rise  along  the 
walls.  Would  you  like  to  go  together  to  the 
wood  of  Astolat,  as  we  do  other  evenings  ? 

ALLADINE. 

I  am  not  going  out  to-night. 

ABLAMORE. 

We  will  stay  here,  since  you  prefer  it  so. 
Yet  the  air  is  sweet  and  the  evening  very  fair. 
[Alladine  starts  without  his  noticing  itJ]  I 
have  had  flowers  set  along  the  hedges,  and  I 
should  like  to  show  them  to  you.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

No,  not  to-night.  ...  If  you  wish  me  to  .  .  . 
I  like  to  go  there  with  you  .  .  .  the  air  is  pure 
and  the  trees  .  .  .  but  not  to-night.  .  .  . 
[  Cowers y  weeping,  against  the  old  man^s  breast^ 
I  do  not  feel  quite  well.  ... 

ABLAMORE. 

What  is  the  matter?  You  are  going  to 
fall.  ...  I  will  call.  .  .  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides. 


15 


ALLADINE. 

No,     no.  .  .  .  It     is     nothing.   ...  It     is 
over.  .  .  . 

ABLAMORE. 

Sit  down.     Wait.  ... 

[He  runs  to  the  folding-doors  at  the  back  and 
opens  both.  Palomides  is  seen,  seated  on  a 
bench.  He  has  not  had  time  to  turn  away 
his  eyes.  Ablamore  looks  fixedly  at  him, 
without  a  word,  then  re-enters  the  room. 
Palomides  rises  and  retreats  in  the  corridor, 
stifling  the  sound  of  his  footsteps.  The  pet 
lamb  leaves  the  room,  unperceived.] 


Scene  II.  —  A  drawbridge  over  the  moats  of 
the  palace,  Palomides  a7id  Alladine,  with 
her  pet  lamb^  appear  at  the  two  ends  of  the 
bridge.  King  Ablamore  leans  out  from  a 
window  of  the  tower, 

PALOMIDES. 

Were  you  going  out,  Alladine  ?  —  I  was  com- 
ing in.  I  am  coming  back  from  the  chase.  —  It 
rained. 

alladine. 

I  have  never  passed  this  bridge. 

PALOMIDES. 

It  leads  to  the  forest.  It  is  seldom  passed. 
People  had  rather  go  a  long  way  around.  I 
think  they  are  afraid  because  the  moats  are 
deeper  at  this  place  than  elsewhere,  and  the 
black  water  that  comes  down  from  the  moun- 


1 6         AUadine  and  Palomides. 

tains  boils  horribly  between  the  walls  before  it 
goes  hurling  itself  into  the  sea.  It  roars  there 
always  :  but  the  quays  are  so  high  you  hardly 
notice  it.  It  is  the  most  deserted  wing  of  the 
palace.  But  on  this  side  the  forest  is  more 
beautiful,  more  ancient,  and  greater  than  any 
you  have  seen.  It  is  full  of  unusual  trees  and 
flowers  that  have  sprung  up  of  themselves. — 
Will  you  come? 

ALLADINE. 

I  do  not  know.  ...  I  am  afraid  of  the 
roaring  water. 

PALOMIDES. 

Come,  come  ;  it  roars  without  reason.  Look 
at  your  lamb ;  he  looks  at  me  as  if  he  wished 
to  come.  .  .  .  Come,  come.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Don't  call  him.  .  .  .   He  will  get  away. 

PALOMIDES. 

Come,  come. 

[The  lamb  escapes  from  Alladine*s  hands,  and 
^     comes  leaping  toward  Palomides,  but   slips 
on  the  inclined  plane  of  the  drawbridge  and 
goes  rolling  into  the  moat.] 

ALLADINE. 

What  has  he  done  ?  — Where  is  he  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

He  slipped.  He  is  struggling  in  the  heart  of 
the  eddy.  Do  not  look  at  him ;  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  done.  .  .  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  17 

ALLADINE. 

You  are  going  to  save  him  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

Save  him?  But  look!  he  is  already  in  the 
tunnel.  One  moment  more,  and  he  will  be 
under  the  vaults ;  and  God  himself  will  never 
see  him  more.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Go  away  1     Go  away  ! 

PALOMIDES. 

What  is  the  matter? 

ALLADINE. 

Go  away  !  —  I  do  not  want  to  see  you  any 
more  !  .  .  . 

[Ablamore  enters  precipitately,  seizes  Alladine, 
and  draws  her  away  brusquely  without 
speaking.] 


Scene  III.  —  A   room   in   the  palace,     Abla- 
more and  Alladine  discovered, 

ABLAMORE. 

You  see,  Alladine,  my  hands  do  not  tremble, 
my  heart  beats  like  a  sleeping  child's,  and  my 
voice  has  not  once  been  stirred  with  wrath.  1 
bear  no  ill-will  to  Palomides,  although  what  he 
has  done  might  seem  unpardonable.  And  as 
for  thee,  who  could  bear  thee  ill-will?  You 
obey  laws  you  do  not  know,  and  you  could  not 
2 


1 8         Alladlne  and  Palomides. 

act  otherwise.  I  will  not  speak  to  you  of  what 
took  place  the  other  day  along  the  palace  moats, 
nor  of  all  the  unforeseen  death  of  the  lamb 
might  have  revealed  to  me,  had  I  believed  in 
omens  for  an  instant.  But  last  night  I  sur- 
prised the  kiss  you  gave  each  other  under  the 
windows  of  Astolaine.  At  that  moment  I  was 
with  her  in  her  room.  She  has  a  soul  that 
fears  so  much  to  trouble,  with  a  tear  or  with  a 
simple  movement  of  her  eyelids,  the  happiness 
of  those  about  her,  that  I  shall  never  know  if 
she,  as  I,  surprised  that  wretched  kiss.  But  I 
know  what  she  has  the  power  to  suffer.  I  shall 
not  ask  you  anything  you  cannot  avow  to  me, 
but  I  would  know  if  you  had  any  secret  design 
in  following  Palomides  under  the  window  where 
you  must  have  seen  us.  Answer  me  without 
fear;  you  know  beforehand  I  will  pardon 
everything, 

ALLADINE. 


I  did  not  kiss  him. 


ABLAMORE. 


What?      You  did  not   kiss  Palomides,  and 
Palomides  did  not  kiss  you  ? 


ALLADINE. 

Na 

ABLAMORE. 


Ah  !  .  .  .  Listen  :  I  came  here  to  forgive  you 
everything.  ...  I  thought  you  had  acted  as 
we  almost  all  act,  without  aught  of  our  soul  in- 


Alladine  and  Palomides,  19 

tervening.  .  .  .  But  now  I  will  know  all  that 
passed.  .  .  .  You  love  Palomides,  and  you  have 
kissed  him  under  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

No. 

ABLAMORE. 

Don't  go  away.  I  am  only  an  old  man.  Do 
not  flee.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

I  am  not  fleeing. 

ABLAMORE. 

Ah !  ah !  You  do  not  flee,  because  you 
think  my  old  hands  harmless  !  They  have  yet 
the  strength  to  tear  a  secret  out  in  spite  of  all 
\He,  seizes  her  armsJ]  And  they  could  wrestle 
with  all  those  you  prefer.  .  .  .  \_He  twists  her 
arms  behind  her  head,']  Ah !  you  will  not 
speak  !  .  .  .  There  will  yet  come  a  time  when 
all  your  soul  shall  spirt  out  like  a  clear  spring, 
for  woe.  .  .  . 


No,  no ! 


ALLADINE. 


ABLAMORE. 


Again,  ...  we  are  not  at  the  end,  the  journey 
is  very  long  —  and  naked  truth  is  hid  among 
the  rocks.  .  .  .  Will  she  come  forth?  ...  I 
see  her  gestures  in  your  eyes  already,  and  her 
cool  breath  will  lave  my  visage  soon.  ...  Ah  ! 
.  .  .  Al^  ;4ine  !  Alladine  1  .  .  .  \^He  releases  her 
suddenlyi^      I  heard  your  bones  cry  out  like 


20         AUadine  and  Palomides. 

little  children.  ,  .  .  I  have  not  hurt  you?  .  .  . 
Do  not  stay  thus,  upon  your  knees  before  me. 
...  It  is  I  who  go  down  on  my  knees.  \_IIe 
does  as  he  says^^  I  am  a  wretch.  .  .  .  You 
must  have  pity.  ...  It  is  not  for  myself  alone 
I  pray.  ...  I  have  only  one  poor  daughter. 
...  All  the  rest  are  dead.  ...  I  had  seven 
of  them  about  me.  .  .  .  They  were  fair  and  full 
of  happiness ;  and  I  saw  them  no  more.  .  .  . 
The  only  one  left  to  me  is  going  to  die,  too. 
.  .  .  She  did  not  love  life.  .  .  .  But  one  day 
she  encountered  something  she  no  longer  looked 
for,  and  I  saw  she  had  lost  the  desire  to  die. 
...  I  do  not  ask  a  thing  impossible.  .  .  . 

[Alladine  weeps  and  makes  no  answer. 


Scene    IV.  —  The    apartment    of    Astolaine. 
AsTOLAiNE  and  Palomides  discovered, 

PALOMIDES. 

Astolaine,  when  I  met  you  several  months 
ago  by  chance,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
found  at  last  what  I  had  sought  for  during  many 
years.  .  .  .  Till  you,  I  did  not  know  all  that 
the  ever  tenderer  goodness  and  complete  sim- 
plicity of  a  high  soul  might  be.  I  was  so  deeply 
stirred  by  it  that  it  seemed  to  me  the  first  time 
I  had  met  a  human  being.  You  would  have 
said  that  I  had  lived  till  then  in  a  closed  cham- 
ber which  you  opened  for  me  ;  and  all  at  once 
I  knew  what  must  be  the  soul  of  other  men  and 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  21 

what  mine  might  become.  .  .  .  Since  then, 
I  have  known  you  further.  I  have  seen  you 
act,  and  others  too  have  taught  me  all  that  you 
have  been. 

There  have  been  evenings  when  I  quitted 
you  without  a  word,  and  went  to  weep  for  won- 
der in  a  corner  of  the  palace,  because  you  had 
simply  raised  your  eyes,  made  a  little  uncon- 
scious gesture,  or  smiled  for  no  apparent  cause, 
yet  at  the  moment  when  all  the  souls  about  you 
asked  it  and  would  be  satisfied.  There  is  but 
you  who  know  these  moments,  because  you  are, 
it  seems,  the  soul  of  all,  and  I  do  not  beheve 
those  who  have  not  drawn  near  you  can  know 
what  true  life  is.  To-day  I  come  to  say  all  this 
to  you,  because  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  be 
he  whom  I  hoped  once  to  become.  ...  A 
chance  has  come  —  or  haply  I  myself  have 
come  ;  for  you  can  never  tell  if  you  have  made 
a  movement  of  yourself,  or  if  it  be  chance  that 
has  met  with  you  —  a  chance  has  come,  which 
has  opened  my  eyes,  just  as  we  were  about  to 
make  each  other  unhappy ;  and  I  have  recog- 
nized there  must  be  something  more  incompre- 
hensible than  the  beauty  of  the  most  beautiful 
soul  or  the  most  beautiful  face ;  and  mightier, 
too,  since  I  must  needs  obey  it.  ...  I  do  not 
know  if  you  have  understood  me.  If  you 
understand,  have  pity  on  me.  ...  I  have  said 
to  myself  all  that  could  be  said.  ...  I  know 
what  I  shall  lose,  for  I  know  her  soul  is  a  child's 
soul,  a  poor  strengthless  child's,  beside  yours, 
and  yet  I  cannot  resist  it.  .  .  . 


22         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

ASTOLAINE. 

Do  not  weep.  ...  I  know  too  that  one  does 
not  do  what  one  would  do  .  .  .  nor  was  I  igno- 
rant that  you  would  come.  .  .  .  There  must 
indeed  be  laws  mightier  than  those  of  our  souls, 
of  which  we  always  speak.  .  .  .  \_Kissing  him 
abruptly\ .  —  But  I  love  thee  the  more,  my  poor 
Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

I  love  thee,  too  .  .  .  more  than  her  I  love. 
.  .  .  Thou  weepest,  as  I  do  ? 

ASTOLAINE. 

They  are  little  tears.  .  .  .  Do  not  be  sad  for 
them.  ...  I  weep  so,  because  I  am  woman, 
but  they  say  our  tears  are  not  painful.  .  .  . 
You  see  I  can  dry  them  already.  ...  I  knew 
well  what  it  was.  ...  I  waited  for  the  waken- 
ing. ...  It  has  come,  and  I  can  breathe  with 
less  disquietude,  being  no  longer  happy.  .  .  . 
There  !  .  .  .  We  must  see  clearly  now  for  you 
and  her.  For  I  beheve  my  father  already  has 
suspicions.  \Exeunt, 


ACT  THIRD. 

Scene  I.  —  A  room  in  the  palace,  Ablamore 
discovered,  Astolaine  stands  on  the  step  oj 
a  half-open  door  at  the  back  of  the  hall, 

ASTOLAINE. 

Father,  I  have  come  because  a  voice  that  I 
no  longer  can  resist,  commands  me  to.  I  told 
you  all  that  happened  in  my  soul  when  I  met 
Palomides.  He  was  not  like  other  men.  .  .  . 
To-day  I  come  to  ask  your  help  ...  for  I  do 
not  know  what  should  be  said  to  him.  .  .  . 
I  have  become  aware  I  cannot  love  him.  .  .  . 
He  has  remained  the  same,  and  I  alone  have 
changed,  or  have  not  understood.  .  .  .  And 
since  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  love,  as  I  have 
dreamed  of  love,  him  I  had  chosen  among 
all,  it  must  be  that  my  heart  is  shut  to  these 
things.  ...  I  know  it  to-day.  ...  I  shall  look 
no  more  toward  love ;  and  you  will  see  me 
living  on  about  you  without  sadness  and  with- 
out unrest.  ...  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  be 
happy.  .  .  • 

ABLAMORE. 

Come  hither,  Astolaine.  It  is  not  so  that 
you  were  wont  to  speak  in  the  old  days  to 
your  father.  You  wait  there,  on  the  threshold 
of  a  door  hardly  ajar,  as  if  you  were  ready  to 


24         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

flee  ;  and  with  your  hand  upon  the  key,  as  if  you 
would  close  from  me  forever  the  secret  of  your 
heart.  You  know  quite  well  I  have  not  under- 
stood what  you  have  just  said,  and  that  words 
have  no  sense  when  souls  are  not  within  reach 
of  each  other.  Draw  nearer  still,  and  speak  no 
more  to  me.  [Astolaine  approaches  slowly^ 
There  is  a  moment  when  souls  touch  each 
other,  and  know  all  without  need  that  one 
should  move  the  lips.  Draw  nearer.  .  .  .  They 
do  not  reach  each  other  yet,  and  their  radiance 
is  so  slight  about  us !  .  .  .  [Astolaine  sfops.'] 
Thou  darest  not?  —  Thou  knowest  too  how  fer 
one  can  go?  —  It  is  I  who  must.  .  .  .  [^He 
approaches  Astolaine  with  slow  steps,  theft 
stops  and  looks  long  at  her,'\  I  see  thee, 
Astolaine.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Father !  .  .  .   \She  sobs  as  she  kisses  the  old 
man,'] 

ABLAMORE. 

You  see  well  it  was- useless.  ... 


Scene  II.  —  A  chamber  in  the  palace. 
Enter  Alladine  and  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

All  will  be  ready  to-morrow.  We  cannot 
wait  longer.  He  prowls  like  a  madman  through 
the  corridors  of  the  palace ;    I  met  him  even 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  25 

now.  He  looked  at  me  without  a  word.  I 
passed ;  and  as  I  turned,  I  sa^v  him  slyly  laugh, 
shaking  his  keys.  When  he  perceived  that  I 
was  looking  at  him,  he  smiled  at  me,  making 
signs  of  friendship.  He  must  have  some  secret 
project,  and  we  are  in  the  hands  of  a  master 
whose  reason  begins  to  totter.  .  .  .  To-morrow 
we  shall  be  far  away.  .  .  .  Yonder  there  are 
wonderful  countries  that  resemble  thine.  .  .  . 
Astolaine  has  already  provided  for  our  flight 
and  for  my  sisters\  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

What  has  she  said? 

PALOMroES. 

Nothing,  nothing.  .  .  .  You  will  see  every- 
thing about  my  father's  castle,  —  after  days  of 
sea  and  days  of  forests  —  you  will  see  lakes  and 
mountains  .  .  .  not  like  these,  under  a  sky  that 
looks  like  the  vault  of  a  cave,  with  black  trees 
that  the  storms  destroy  .  .  .  but  a  sky  beneath 
which  there  is  nothing  more  to  fear,  —  forests  that 
are  always  awake,  flowers  that  do  not  close.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

She  wept? 

PALOMIDES. 

What  are  you  asking  ?  .  .  .  There  is  something 
there  of  which  we  have  no  right  to  speak,  do  you 
understand  ?  .  .  .  There  is  a  life  there  that  does 
not  belong  to  our  poor  life,  and  which  love  has 
no  right  to  approach  except  in  silence.  .  .  .  We 


i6         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

are  here,  like  two  beggars  in  rags,  when  I 
think  of  it.  ..  Go  !  go  !  ...  I  could  tell  you 
things.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Palomides !  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter? 

PALOMIDES. 

Go  !  go  !  ...  I  have  seen  tears  that  came 
from  further  than  the  eyes.  .  .  .  There  is  some- 
thing else.  ...  It  may  be,  nevertheless,  that 
we  are  right  .  .  .  but  how  I  regret  being  right 
so,  my  God  !  ...  Go  !  ...  I  will  tell  you  to- 
morrow .  ,  .  to-morrow  .  .  .  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

\Exeunt  severally. 


Scene  III.  —  A  corridor  before  the  apartmefit 
of  Alladine.  Enter  Astolaine  and  tne  Sis- 
ters OF  Palomides. 

astolaine. 

The  horses  wait  in  the  forest,  but  Palomides 
will  not  flee;  and  yet  your  lives  and  his  are 
in  danger.  I  do  not  know  my  poor  father 
any  longer.  He  has  a  fixed  idea  that  troubles 
his  reason.  This  is  the  third  day  I  have  fol- 
lowed him  step  by  step,  hiding  myself  behind 
the  pillars  and  the  walls,  for  he  suffers  no  one 
to  companion  him.  To-day,  as  the  other  days, 
and  from  the  first  gleams  of  the  morning  he 
has  gone  wandering  through  the  corridors  and 
halls  of  the  palace,  and  along  the  moats  and 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         27 

ramparts,  shaking  the  great  golden  keys  he  has 
had  made  and  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the 
strange  song  whose  refrain,  Go  follow  what 
your  eyes  have  seen,  has  perhaps  pierced  even 
to  the  depths  of  your  chambers.  I  have  con- 
cealed from  you  till  now  all  that  has  come  to 
pass,  because  such  things  must  not  be  spoken 
of  without  reason.  He  must  have  shut  up 
Alladine  in  this  apartment,  but  no  one  knows 
what  he  has  done  with  her.  I  have  listened  at 
the  doors  every  night  and  whenever  he  has  been 
away  a  moment,  but  I  have  never  heard  any 
noise  in  the  room.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  anything? 

ONE   OF   THE   SISTERS    OF   PALOMIDES. 

No  ;  I  hear  only  the  murmur  of  the  air  pass- 
ing through  the  little  chinks  of  the  wood.  .  .  • 

ANOTHER   SISTER. 

It  seems  to  me,  when  I  listen  hard,  that  I 
hear  the  great  pendulum  of  the  clock. 

A  THIRD   SISTER. 

But  what  is  this  little  Alladine,  then,  and  why 
does  he  bear  such  ill-will  to  her? 

ASTOLAINE. 

It  is  a  little  Greek  slave  that  cairie  from  the 
heart  of  Arcady.  ...  He  bears  her  no  ill-will, 
but  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  ?  —  It  is  my  father.  .  .  . 
\_Singing  heard  in  the  distance, '\  Hide  your- 
selves behind  the  pillars.  .  .  He  will  have  no 
one  pass  by  this  corridor. —  \They  hide!\ 


28  Alladine  and  Palomides. 

Enter  Ablamore,  singing  and  shaking  a  bunch 
of  great  keys, 

ABLAMORE   {sings) , 

Misfortune  had  three  golden  keys. 
—  He  has  no  rescue  for  the  Queen !  — 
Misfortune  had  three  golden  keys. 
Go  follow  what  your  eyes  have  seen. 

[Sits  dejected  on  a  bench,  beside  the  door  of 
Alladine's  apartment,  hums  a  little  while 
longer,  and  soon  goes  to  sleep,  his  arms 
hanging  down  and  his  head  fallen.] 


ASTOLAINE. 

Come,  come  !  make  no  noise.  He  has  fal- 
len asleep  on  the  bench.  —  Oh,  my  poor  old 
father !  How  white  his  hair  has  grown  during 
these  days  !  He  is  so  weak,  he  is  so  unhappy, 
that  sleep  itself  no  longer  brings  him  peace. 
It  is  three  whole  days  now  since  I  have  dared  to 
look  upon  his  face.  .  .  . 

ONE  OF  THE   SISTERS   OF   PALOMIDES. 

He  sleeps  profoundly.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

He  sleeps  profoundly,  but  you  can  see  his 
soul  has  no  rest.  .  .  .  The  sunlight  here  will  vex 
his  eyelids.  ...  I  am  going  to  draw  his  cloak 
over  his  face.  .  .  • 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  29 

ANOTHER  SISTER. 

No,  no;  do  not  touch  it.  .  .  .  He  might 
wake  with  a  start.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Some  one  is  coming  in  the  corridor.  Come, 
come  !  put  yourselves  before  him.  .  .  .  Hide 
him.  ...  A  stranger  must  not  see  him  in  this 
state.  .  .  . 

A    SISTER    OF    PALOMIDES. 

It  is  Palomides.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

I  am  going  to  cover  his  poor  eyes.  .  .  .  \_She 
covers  Ablamore's/^^:^.]  —  I  would  not  have  Pa- 
lomides see  him  thus.  .  .  .  He  is  too  miserable. 

Enter  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

What  is  the  matter? 

ONE   OF   THE   SISTERS. 

He  has  fallen  asleep  on  the  bench. 

PALOMIDES. 

I  have  followed  him  without  his  seeing 
me.  .  .  .  He  said  nothing?  ... 

ASTOLAINE. 

No;  but  see  all  he  has  suffered.  .  .  . 


30         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

Has  he  the  keys? 

ANOTHER   SISTER. 

He  holds  them  in  his  hand.  .  •  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  am  going  to  take  them. 

ASTOLAINE. 

What  are  you  going  to  do?  Oh,  do  not 
wake  him  !  .  .  .  For  three  nights  now  he  has 
wandered  through  the  palace.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  will  open  his  hand  a  little  without  his  notic- 
ing it.  .  .  .  We  have  no  right  to  wait  any 
longer.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  he  has  done. 
.  .  .  He  will  forgive  us  when  he  has  his  reason 
back.  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  his  hand  has  no  strength 
any  more.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Take  care  !     Take  care  ! 

PALOMIDES. 

I  have  the  keys.  —  Which  is  it?  I  am  going 
to  open  the  room. 

ONE   OF  THE   SISTERS. 

Oh,  I  am  afraid  !  ...  Do  not  open  it  at 
once.   .  .  .  Palomides !  .  .  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         3 1 

PALOMIDES. 

Stay  here.  ...  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall 
find.  .  .  . 

\He  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it,  and  enters  the 
apartment, 

ASTOLAINE. 

Is  she  there? 

PALOMIDES  {in  the  apartment) . 
I  cannot  see.  .  .  .  The  shutters  are  closed.  .  .  • 

ASTOLAINE. 

Have  a  care,  Palomides.  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  that 
I  go  first  ?  .  .  .  Thy  voice  is  trembling.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES  {in  the  apartment). 

No,  no.  ...  I  see  a  ray  of  sunlight  falling 
through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters. 

ONE   OF   TIE   SISTERS. 

Yes ;  it  is  broad  day  out  of  doors. 

PALOMIDES. 

\_Rushing  headlong  from  the  room^  Come  ! 
Come  !  .  .  .  I  think  she  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Thou  hast  seen  her?  ... 

PALOMIDES. 

She  is  stretched  out  on  the  bed  !  .  .  .  She 
does  not  stir !  .  .  .  I  do  not  think  she  .  .  . 
Come  !   Come  !     \_They  all  go  into  the  room. 


32         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

ASTOLAINE   AND    THE    SISTERS   OF   PALOMIDES. 

\_In  the  room,~\  She  is  here.  .  .  .  No,  no, 
she  is  not  dead.  .  .  .  Alladine  !  Alladine  1  .  .  . 
Oh  !  oh  !  The  poor  child  !  .  .  .  Do  not  cry 
out  so.  .  .  .  She  has  fainted.  .  .  .  Her  hair  is 
tied  across  her  mouth.  .  .  .  And  her  hands  are 
bound  behind  her  back.  .  .  .  They  are  bound 
with  the  help  of  her  hair.  .  .  .  Alladine  !  Alla- 
dine !   .  .  .  Fetch  some  water.  .  .  . 

[Ablamore,  who  has  waked,  appears  on  the 
step  of  the  door. 

ASTOLAINE. 

There  is  my  father !  .  .  . 

ABLAMORE   {goiflg  tO  PALOMIDES) . 

Was  it  you  who  opened  the  door  of  the  room  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

Yes,  it  was  I.  ...  I  did  it  —  well,  then? 
—  well,  then?  ...  I  could  not  let  her  die 
under  my  eyes.  .  .  .  See  what  you  have  done. 
Alladine  !  .  .  .  Fear  nothing.  .  .  .  She  opens 
her  eyes  a  little.  ...  I  will  not  .  .  . 

ABLAMORE. 

Do  not  cry  out.  ...  Do  not  cry  out  so.  .  .  . 
Come,  we  will  open  the  shutters.  .  .  .  You  can- 
not see  here.  Alladine  !  .  .  .  She  is  already 
sitting  up.  Alladine,  come  too.  .  .  ..  Do  you 
see,  my  children,  it  is  dark  in  the  room.  It  is 
as  dark  here  as  if  we  were  a  thousand  feet  under 
the  ground.      But  I  open  one  of  the  shutters, 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         33 

and  behold  !  All  the  light  of  the  sky  and  the 
sun  !  ...  It  does  not  need  much  effort ;  the 
light  is  full  of  good-will.  ...  It  suffices  that 
one  call  it ;  it  always  obeys.  .  .  .  Have  you 
seen  the  river  with  its  little  islands  between  the 
meadows  in  flower?  .  .  .  The  sky  is  a  crystal 
ring  to-day.  .  .  .  Alladine  !  Palomides,  come 
see.  .  .  .  Draw  both  of  you  near  Paradise.  ... 
You  must  kiss  each  other  in  the  new  light.  ... 
I  bear  you  no  ill-will.  You  did  what  was 
ordained ;  and  so  did  I.  .  .  .  Lean  out  a  mo- 
ment from  the  open  window,  and  look  once 
more  at  the  sweet  green  things.  .  .  . 

[^  silence.     He  closes  the  shutter  without 
a  word. 


34         Alladine  and  Palomides. 


ACT    FOURTH. 

Vasf  subterranean  crypts,     Alladine  and 
Palomides. 

palomides. 

They  have  bound  my  eyes  with  bands ;  they 
have  tied  my  hands  with  cords. 

ALLADINE. 

They  have  tied  my  hands  with  cords;  they 
have  bound  my  eyes  with  bands.  ...  I  think 
my  hands  are  bleeding.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

Wait.  To-day  I  bless  my  strength.  ...  I 
feel  the  knots  beginning  to  give  way.  .  .  .  One 
struggle  more,  and  let  my  fists  burst !  One 
struggle  more  !  I  have  my  hands  !  \Tearing 
away  the  bandage,"]     And  my  eyes !  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

You  see  now? 

PALOMIDES. 

Yes. 

ALLADINE. 

Where  are  we? 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         35 

PALOMIDES. 

Where  are  you? 

ALLADINE. 

Here  ;  can  you  not  see  me  ? 

PALOMIDES, 

My  eyes  weep  still  where  the  band  has  left 
its  trace.  .  .  .  We  are  not  in  darkness.  .  .  • 
Is  it  you  I  hear  toward  where  I  can  just  see  ? 

ALLADINE. 

I  am  here ;  come. 

PALOMIDES. 

You  are  at  the  edge  of  that  which  gives  us  light. 
Do  not  stir ;  I  cannot  see  all  that  there  is  about 
you.  My  eyes  have  not  forgot  the  bandage  yet. 
They  bound  it  tight  enough  to  burst  my  eyelids. 

ALLADINE. 

Come ;  the  knots  stifle  me.  I  can  wait  no 
longer.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  hear  only  a  voice  coming  out  of  the 
light.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

Where  are  you? 

PALOMIDES. 

I  have  no  idea  myself.  I  walk  still  in  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  Speak  again,  that  I  may   find   you. 


36         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

You  seem  to  be  on  the  edge  of  an  unbounded 
light.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

Come  !  come  !  I  have  borne  without  a  word, 
but  I  can  bear  no  more.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES  {groping  forward^ . 

You  are  there  ?  I  thought  you  so  far  away  ! 
.  .  .  My  tears  deceived  me.  I  am  here,  and 
I  see  you.  Oh,  your  hands  are  wounded ! 
They  have  bled  upon  your  gown,  and  the  knots 
have  entered  into  the  flesh.  I  have  no  longer 
any  weapons.  They  have  taken  away  my  pon- 
iard. I  will  tear  them  off.  Wait !  wait !  I 
have  the  knots. 

ALLADINE. 

Take  off  the  bandage  first  that  makes  me 
blind.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  cannot.  ...  I  do  not  see.  ...  It  seems  to 
be  surrounded  by  a  net  of  golden  threads.      .  . 

ALLADINE. 

My  hands,  then,  my  hands  ! 

PALOMIDES. 

They  have  taken  silken  cords.  .  .  .  Wait, 
the  knots  come  undone.  The  cord  has  thirty 
turns.  .  .  .  There,  there  !  —  Oh,  your  hands 
are  all  blood  !  .  .  .  You  would  say  they  were 
dead.  ... 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         37 


ALLADINE. 

No,  no  !  .  .  .  They  are  alive  !  they  are  alive  ! 
See!  .  .  . 

[With  her  hands  hardly  yet  unbound,  she  clasps 
Palomides  about  the  neck  and  kisses  him 
passionately.] 

PALOMIDES. 

Alladine  ! 

ALLADINE. 

Palomides  ! 

PALOMIDES. 


Alladine,  Alladine  !  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

I   am   happy !   .  .  .  I    have   waited   a   long 

while  !  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  was  afraid  to  come.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

I  am  happy  .  .  .  and  I  would  that  I  could 
see  thee.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

They  have  tied  down  the  4)andage  like  a 
casque.  - .  .  .  —  Do  not  turn  round ;  I  have 
found  the  golden  threads.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Yes,  yes,  I  will  turn  round.  .  .  . 

\She  turns  about,  to  kiss  him  again. 


38         AUadine  and  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

Have  a  care.  Do  not  stir.  I  am  afraid  of 
wounding  thee.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Tear  it  away  !  Fear  nothing.  I  can  bear 
no  more  !  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  would  see  thee  too.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

Tear  it  away !  Tear  it  away :  I  am  no 
longer  within  reach  of  woe  !  .  .  .  Tear  it  away  1 
.  .  .  Thou  dost  not  .know  that  one  could  wish 
to  die.  .  .  .  Where  are  we  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

Thou  'It  see,  thou  'It  see.  ...  It  is  innumer- 
able crypts  .  .  .  great  blue  halls,  gleaming  pil- 
krs,  and  deep  vaults.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

Why  dost  thpu  answer  when  I  question  thee  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

What  matter  where  we  be,  if  we  be  but 
together?  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Thou  lovest  me  less  already? 


AUadine  and  Palomides.         39 

PALOMIDES. 

Why,  what  ails  thee  ? 

ALLADINE. 

I  know  well  where  I  am  when  I  am  on  thy 
heart.  .  .  .  Oh,  tear  the  bandage  off !  ...  I 
would  not  enter  blind  into  thy  soul.  .  .  ,  What 
doest  thou,  Palomides?  Thou  dost  not  laugh 
when  I  laugh.  Thou  dost  not.  weep  when  I 
weep.  Thou  dost  not  clap  thy  hands  when 
I  clap  mine ;  and  thou  tremblest  not  when  I 
speak  trembling  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  .  .  . 
The  band !  The  band  !  .  .  .  I  will  see  !  .  .  . 
There,  there,  above  my  hair !  .  .  .  [She  tears 
away  the  bandage^     Oh  !  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

Seest  thou  ? 

ALLADINE. 

Yes.  ...  I  see  thee  only.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

What  is  it,  Alladine  ?     Thou  kissest  me  as  if 
thou  wert  already  sad.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Where  are  we? 

PALOMIDES. 

Why  dost  thou  ask  so  sadly? 

ALLADINE. 

No,  I  am  not  sad ;  but  my  eyes  will  hardly 
open.  ... 


40         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

One  would  say  your  joy  had  fallen  on  my 
lips  like  a  child  at  the  threshold  of  the  house. 
.  .  .  Do  not  turn  away.  ...  I  fear  lest  you 
should  flee,  and  I  fear  lest  I  dream..  .  •  . 

ALLADINE. 

Where  are  we  ? 

PALOMIDES. 

We  are  in  crypts  that  I  have  never  seen.  .  .  . 
Doth  it  not  seem  to  thee  the  light  increases? 
When  I  unclosed  my  eyes,  I  could  distinguish 
nothing ;  now  little  by  little  it  is  all  revealed. 
I  have  been  often  told  of  wondrous  caverns 
whereon  the  halls  of  Ablamore  were  built.  It 
must  be  these.  No  one  descends  here  ever ; 
and  the  king  only  has  the  keys.  I  knew  the 
sea  flooded  the  lowest  vaults ;  and  it  is  proba- 
bly the  reflex  of  the  sea  which  thus  illumines 
us.  .  .  .  They  thought  to  bury  us  in  night. 
They  came  dpwn  here  with  torches  and  flam- 
beaus and  saw  the  darkness  only,  while  the 
light  came  out  to  meet  us,  seeing  we  had  none. 
...  It  brightens  without  ceasing.  ...  I  am 
sure  the  dawn  pierces  the  ocean  and  sends 
down  to  us  through  all  its  greening  waves  the 
purest  of  its  child- soul.   .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

How  long  have  we  been  here? 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         41 

PALOMIDES. 

I  have  no  idea.  ...  I  made  no  effort  till  I 
heard  thee  speak.   .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

I  do  not  know  how  this  took  place.  I  was 
asleep  in  the  room  where  thou  didst  find  me ; 
and  when  I  waked,  my  eyes  were  bound  across, 
and  both  my  hands  were  pinioned  in  my 
girdle.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  too  was  sleeping.  I  heard  nothing,  and 
I  had  a  band  across  my  eyes  ere  I  could  open 
them.  I  struggled  in  the  darkness ;  but  they 
were  stronger  than  I.  ...  I  must  have  passed 
under  deep  vaults,  for  I  felt  the  cold  fall  on 
my  shoulders ;  and  I  went  down  so  far  I  could 
not  count  the  steps.  .  .  .  Did  no  one  speak 
to  thee  ? 

ALLADINE. 

No ;  no  one  spoke.  I  heard  some  one  weep- 
ing as  he  walked ;  and  then  I  fainted.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES  (kissing  her) . 
Alladine  ! 

ALLADINE. 

How  gravely  thou  dost  kiss  me  I  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

Close  not  thine  eyes  when  I  do  kiss  thee 
so.  ...  I  would  see  the  kisses  trembling  in 


42         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

thy  heart,  and  all  the  dew  that  rises  in  thy 
soul.  .  .  ,  We  shall  not  find  such  kisses  any 
more.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

Always,  always  1 

PALOMroES, 

No,  no ;  there  is  no  kissing  twice  upon  the 
heart  of  death.  .  .  .  How  fair  thou  art  so  !  .  .  . 
It  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  thee  near.  .  .  . 
It  is  strange,  we  think  that  we  have  seen  each 
other  because  we  have  gone  by  two  steps  apart ; 
but  everything  changes  the  moment  the  lips 
touch.  .  .  .  There,  thou  must  be  let  to  have  thy 
will.  ...  I  stretch  my  arms  wide  to  admire  thee, 
as  if  thou  wert  no  longer  mine ;  and  then  I 
draw  them  nearer  till  I  touch  thy  kisses  and 
perceive  only  eternal  bliss.  .  .  .  There  needed 
us  this  supernatural  light !  .  .  .  [He  kisses  her 
again.']  Ah !  What  hast  thou  done?  Take 
care  !  we  are  upon  a  crest  of  rock  that  over- 
hangs the  water  that  gives  us  light.  Do  not 
step  back.  It  was  time.  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  too 
abruptly.     I  was  dazzled.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

[Turning  and  looking  at  the  blue  water  that 
illuminates  themJ]     Oh  1  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

It  is  as  if  the  sky  had  flowed  hither.  •  •  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         43 

ALLADINE. 

It  is  full  of  moveless  flowers.  •  •  • 

PALOMIDES. 

It  is  full  of  moveless  flowers  and  strange.  .  .  . 
Hast  thou  seen  the  largest  there  that  blooms 
beneath  the  others?  It  seems  to  live  a 
cadenced  Hfe.  .  .  .  And  the  water  ...  Is  it 
water?  ...  It  seems  more  beautiful,  more 
pure,  more  blue  than  all  the  water  in  the 
world.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

I  dare  not  look  upon  it  longer.  .  • . 

PALOMIDES. 

See  how  about  us  all  is  luminous.  .  .  .  The 
light  dares  hesitate  no  longer,  and  we  kiss  each 
other  in  the  vestibules  of  heaven.  .  .  .  Seest 
thou  the  precious  stones  that  gem  the  vaults, 
drunken  with  life,  that  seem  to  smile  on  us ; 
and  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  glowing, 
blue  roses  that  climb  along  the  pillars?  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Oh  I  ...  I  heard !  .  •  • 

PALOMIDES. 

What? 

ALLADINE. 

Some  one  striking  the  rocks.  •  •  • 


44  Alladine  and  Palomides. 

PALOMIDES. 

No,  no;  it  is  the  golden  gates  of  a  new 
Paradise,  that  open  in  our  souls  and  sing  upon 
their  hinges  !  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

Listen  .  .  .  again,  again !  .  .  . 
PALOMIDES  {with  voice  suddenly  changed^ . 

Yes ;  it  is  there.  ...  It  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  bluest  vaults.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

They  are  coming  to.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  iron  on  the  rock.  .  .  . 

They  have  walled  up  the  door  or  cannot  open 

it.  .  .  .  It  is  the  picks  grating  against  the  stone. 

.  .  ,  His  soul  has  told  him  we  were  happy.  .  .  . 

*     [A  silence  ;  then  a  stone  is  detached  at  the  very 

end  of  the  vault,  and  a  ray  of  daylight  breaks 

into  the  cavern.] 

ALLADINE. 

Oh !  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

It  is  another  light.  .  .  . 

[Motionless  and  anxious,  they  watch  other 
stones  detach  themselves  slowly  in  an  insuf- 
ferable light,  and  fall  one  by  one ;  while  the 
light,  entering  in  more  and  more  resistless 
floods,  reveals  to  them  little  by  little  the 
gloom  of  the  cavern  they  had  thought  mar- 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         45 

vellous.  The  miraculous  lake  becomes  wan 
and  sinister ;  the  precious  stones  about  them 
are  extinguished,  and  the  glowing  roses  ap- 
pear as  the  stains  and  rotten  rubbish  that  they 
are.  At  last,  the  whole  side  of  rock  falls 
abruptly  into  the  crypt.  The  sunlight  enters, 
dazzling.  Calls  and  songs  are  heard  with- 
out.    Alladine  and  Palomides  recoil.] 

PALOMIDES. 

Where  are  we? 

ALLADINE  (embracing  Mm). 
I  love  thee  still,  Palomides.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

I  love  thee  too,  my  Alladine.  .  .  . 

ALLADINE. 

They  come.  .  .  . 

PALOMIDES. 

\_Looking  behind  him   as   they  still  recoiL'] 
Have  a  care.  ... 

ALLADINE. 

No,  no ;  have  no  more  care.  .  .  . 
PALOMIDES  (looking  at  her). 
Alladine  ? 

ALLADINE. 


Yes. 


[They  still  recoil  before  the  invasion  of  light  or 
peril,  until  they  lose  their  footing ;  and  they 
fall  and  disappear  behind  the  rock  that  over- 
hangs the  underground  and  now  gloomy 
water.  —  A  silence.  Astolaine  and  the  sisters 
of  Palomides  enter  the  crypt.] 


46         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

ASTOLAINE. 

Where  are  they? 

ONE   OF   THE   SISTERS   OF  PALOMIDES. 

Palomides  !  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Alladine  !  Alladine  !  .  .  . 

ANOTHER   SISTER. 

Palomides !  .  .  .  It  is  we  !  .  .  . 

THIRD   SISTER. 

Fear  nothing ;  we  are  alone  !  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Come !    come !    we    have   come   to   rescue 

you !  ,  .  . 

FOURTH   SISTER. 

Ablamore  has  fled.  .  .  . 

FIFTH   SISTER. 

He  is  no  longer  in  the  palace.  ... 

SDCTH   SISTER. 

They  do  not  answer.  ... 

ASTOLAINE. 

I   heard  the  water  stirred !  .  .  .  This  way, 
this  way  1 

\They  run  to  the  rock  that  overlooks  the 
underground  waterJ] 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         47 

ONE   (3F   THE   SISTERS. 

They  are  there  !  .  .  . 

ANOTHER   SISTER. 

Yes,  yes;  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  black 
water.  .  .  .  They  embrace. 

THIRD   SISTER. 

They  are  dead. 

FOURTH    SISTER. 

No,  no ;  they  are  alive  !  they  are  alive  !  .  .  . 
See.  .  .  . 

THE   OTHER   SISTERS. 

Help  !  help !  .  .  .  Call !  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

They  make  no  effort  to  save  themselves  !  .  .  . 


48         Alladine  and  Palomides. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

[A  corridor,  so  long  that  its  furthest  arches 
seem  to  lose  themselves  in  a  kind  of  indoor 
horizon.  The  sisters  of  Palomides  wait  be- 
fore one  of  the  innumerable  closed  doors 
that  open  into  this  corridor.  They  seem  to 
be  guarding  it.  A  little  further  down,  on  the 
opposite  side,  Astolaine  and  the  Physician 
converse  before  another  door,  also  closed.] 

ASTOLAINE. 

[71?  the  Physician.']  Nothing  has  ever  hap- 
pened until  now  in  this  palace,  where  all  things 
have  seemed  to  be  asleep  since  my  sisters  died ; 
and  my  poor  old  father,  pursued  by  a  strange 
restlessness,  has  fretted  without  reason  at  this 
calm,  which  seems,  for  all  that,  the  least  dan- 
gerous form  of  happiness.  Some  time  ago,  — 
his  reason  beginning  to  totter  even  then,  —  he 
went  up  to  the  top  of  a  high  tower ;  and  as  he 
stretched  his  arms  out  timidly  toward  the  forests 
and  toward  the  sea,  he  said  to  me  —  smiling  a 
little  fearfully  at  his  words,  as  if  to  disarm  my 
incredulous  smile — that  he  called  about  us 
events  which  had  long  been  hidden  beneath 
the  horizon.  They  have  come,  alas !  sooner 
and  more  in  number  than  he  expected,  and  a 
few  days  have  sufficed  for  them  to  reign  in  his 
stead.     He  has  been  their  first  victim.     He  fled 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         49 

to  the  meadows,  singing,  all  in  tears,  the  even- 
ing when  he  had  Httle  Alladine  and  luckless 
Palomides  taken  down  into  the  crypts.  He  has 
not  since  been  seen.  I  have  had  search  made 
everywhere  throughout  the  country  and  even  on 
the  sea.  He  has  not  been  found.  At  least,  I 
had  hoped  to  save  those  he  made  suffer  unwit- 
tingly, for  he  has  always  been  the  tenderest  of 
men  and  the  best  of  fathers  ;  but  there,  too,  I 
think  I  came  too  late.  I  do  not  know  what 
happened.  They  have  not  spoken  yet.  They 
doubtless  must  have  thought,  hearing  the  sound 
of  the  iron  and  seeing  all  at  once  the  light 
again,  that  my  father  had  regretted  the  kind  of 
surcease  he  had  granted  them,  and  that  some 
one  came  to  bring  them  death.  Or  else  they 
slipped  as  they  drew  back,  upon  the  rock  that 
overhangs  the  lake ;  and  so  must  have  fallen 
through  heedlessness.  But  the  water  is  not 
deep  in  that  spot,  and  we  succeeded  in  saving 
them  without  difficulty.  To-day  it  is  you  alone 
who  can  do  the  rest. 

[The    Sisters  of  Palomides    have  drawn 
nearer, 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

They  are  both  ailing  with  the  same  disease, 
and  it  is  a  disease  I  do  not  know.  —  But  I  have 
little  hope  left.  They  were  seized  perhaps  with 
the  cold  of  the  underground  waters ;  or  else 
those  waters  may  be  poisonous.  The  decom- 
posed body  of  Alladine's  lamb  was  found  there. 
—  I  will  come  back  to-night.  —  Meanwhile  they 
4 


50         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

must  have  silence.  .  .  .  The  level  of  life  is  very 
low  ill  their  hearts.  .  .  .  Do  not  go  into  their 
rooms  and  do  not  speak  to  them,  for  the  least 
word,  in  the  state  they  are  in,  might  cause  their 
death.  .  .  .  They  must  succeed  in  forgetting 
one   another.  \_Exit, 

ONE   OF   THE   SISTERS   OF   PALOMIDES. 

I  see  that  he  will  die. 

ASTOLAINE. 

No,  no.  ...  Do  not  weep ;  ,  .  .  one  does 

not   die    so,  at   his   age.  .  .  . 

ANOTHER   SISTER. 

But  why  is  your  father  angry  without  reason 
at  my  poor  brother  ? 

THIRD   SISTER. 

I  think  your  father  loved  Alladine. 

ASTOLAINE. 

Do  not  speak  so  of  it.  .  .  .  He  thought  I 
suffered.  He  thought  to  have  done  good,  and 
he  did  evil  unwittingly.  .  .  .  That  often  hap- 
pens to  us.  .  .  .  It  is  my  fault,  perhaps.  .  .  . 
I  recall  it  to-day.  .  .  .  One  night  I  was  asleep. 
I  was  weeping  in  a  dream.  .  .  .  We  have  little 
courage  when  we  dream.  I  waked.  .  .  .  He 
was  beside  my  bed,  looking  at  me.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps he  was  deceived.  .  .  . 


51 


Alladine  and  Palomides. 

FOURTH  SISTER  {running). 
Alladine  has  stirred  a  little  in  her  room.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Go  to  the  door  .  .  .  listen.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it 
was  the  nurse  rising.  .  .  . 

FIFTH  SISTER  {listening  at  the  door) . 

No,    no;    I    hear   the    nurse    walking.  .  .  . 
There    is  another   noise. 

SIXTH  SISTER  {also  running). 

I  think  Palomides  has  moved  too ;  I  hear  the 
murmur  of  a  voice  seeking.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF  ALLADINE. 

\yery  feebly y   within    the   room.'\     Palomi- 
des !  .  .  . 

ONE   OF  THE   SISTERS. 

She  is  calling  him  !   .   .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Let  us  be  careful !  .  .  .  Go,  go  in  front  of 
the  door,  that  Palomides  may  not  hear.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

Palomides  ! 

ASTOLAINE. 

My  God  !  My  God  !  Silence  that  voice  !  .  .  . 
Palomides  will  die  of  it  if  he  hear  it !  .  .  . 


52         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

\yery  feebly,  within  the  other  room,']  Alla- 
dine !  .  .  . 

ONE   OF  THE   SISTERS. 

He  answers !  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Three  among  you  remain  here  .  .  .  and  we 
will  go  to  the  other  door.  Come,  come  quickly. 
We  will  surround  them.  We  will  try  to  defend 
them.  .  .  .  Lie  back  against  the  doors.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  they  will  hear  no  longer.  .  .  . 

ONE   OF   THE   SISTERS. 

I  shall  go  into  Alladine's  room.  ... 

SECOND   SISTER. 

Yes,  yes ;   prevent  her  from  crying  out  again. 

THIRD   SISTER. 

She  is  already  cause  of  all  this  evil.  .  .  . 

ASTOLAINE. 

Do  not  go  in,  or  I  go  in  to  Palomides.  .  .  . 
She  also  had  a  right  to  life ;  and  she  has  done 
nought  but  to  live.  .  .  .  But  that  we  cannot 
stifle  in  their  passage  their  deadly  words  !  .  .  . 
We  are  without  help,  my  poor  sisters,  my  poor 
sisters,  and  hands  cannot  stop  souls  !  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF  ALLADINE. 

Palomides,  is  it  thou  ? 


Alladine  and  Palomides.         53 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

Where  art  thou,  Alladine? 

THE   VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

Is  it  thou  whom  I  hear  far  from  me  making 
moan? 

THE   VOICE    OF   PALOMIDES. 

Is  it  thou  whom  I  hear  calling,  and  see  thee 
not? 

THE   VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

One  would  believe  thy  voice  had  lost  ther  last 
of  hope.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

One  would  believe  that  thine  had  crossed  the 
winds  of  death.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

It  goes  hard  with  thy  voice  to  pierce  into  my 
room.  ... 

THE   VOICE   OF  PALOMIDES. 

And  I  no  longer  hear  thy  voice  as  of  old 
time. 

THE   VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

I  have  been  woe  for  thee  !  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

They  have  divided  us,  but  I   do  love  thee 
ever.  ... 


54         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

THE   VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

I  have  been  woe  for  thee.  .  .  .  Art  thou  still 
suffering  ? 

THE   VOICE    OF   PALOMIDES. 

No ;  I  no  longer  suffer,  but  I  fain  would  see 
thee.  ... 

THE    VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

We  shall  not  see  each  other  more ;  the  doors 
are  shut.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE    OF   PALOMIDES. 

Thy  voice  would  make  one  say  thou  lovedst 
me  no  more,  .  c  . 

THE   VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

Yes,  yes ;  I  love  thee  still,  but  it  is  mournful 
now.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

Whither  is  thy  face  turned  ?     I  hardly  under- 
stand thee.  ... 

THE   VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

We  seem  to  be  an  hundred  leagues  from  one 
another.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

I    try   to    rise    in   vain ;    my   spirit    is    too 
he^vy.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE    OF   ALLADINE. 

I  too  would  come,  —  I  too,  —  but   still  my 
head  falls  back.  .  .  . 


Alladine  and  Palomides.  55 

THE  VOICE  OF  PALOMIDES. 

Thou  seemest  almost  to  speak  in  tears  despite 
thyself.  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

No;  I  wept  long  ago ;  it  is  no  longer  tears. 

THE  VOICE  OF  PALOMIDES. 

There  *s  something  in  thy  thoughts  thou  dost 
not  tell  me  of.  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE   OF   ALLADINE. 

They  were  not  precious  stones.  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE   OF  PALOMIDES. 

And  the  flowers  were  not  real.  .  .  . 

ONE  OF  THE  SISTERS  OF  PALOMIDES. 

They  rave.  ... 

ASTOLAINE. 

No,  no ;  they  know  what  they  are  saying.  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE   OF  ALLADINE. 

It  was  the  light  that  had  no  pity  on  us.  .  .  . 

THE    VOICE   OF   PALOMIDES. 

Where  goest  thou,  Alladine  ?    Thou  'rt  being 
borne  away.  .  .  . 


56         Alladine  and  Palomides. 

THE   VOICE   OF  ALLADINE. 

I  have  no  more  regret  to  lose  the  Hght  o'  the 
sun.  ... 

THE  VOICE   OF  PALOMIDES. 

Yes,  yes;  we  shall  behold  the  sweet  green 
things  again  !  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE  OF   ALLADINE. 

I  have  lost  desire  to  live.  .  .  . 

[^A  silence  ;  then  more  and  more  faintly :  ] 

THE   VOICE  OF  PALOMIDES. 

Alladine !  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE   OF  ALLADINE. 

Palomides !  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE   OF  PALOMIDES. 

Alia  .  .  .  dine  !  .  .  . 

[A  silence.  —  Astolaine  and  the  sisters  of  Pa- 
lomides listen,  in  anguish.  Then  the  nurse 
opens,  from  the  inside,  the  door  of  Palomides' 
room,  appears  on  the  sill,  makes  a  sign,  and 
all  enter  the  room.  The  door  closes  behind 
them.  A  new  silence.  A  little  afterwards, 
the  door  of  Alladine's  room  opens  in  its 
turn;  the  other  nurse  comes  out  in  like 
manner,  looks  about  in  the  corridor,  and, 
seeing  no  one,  re-enters  the  room,  leaving  the 
door  wide  open.] 


[Curtain.] 


Pell6as  and  Melisande. 


To   Octave  Mirbeau. 

In  witness  of  deep  friendship, 
admiration,  and  gratitude. 

M.  M. 


Persons. 

Arkel,  King  of  Allemonde. 

GENEVifeVE,  mother  of  Pelleas  and  Golaud. 

Pi:LL]&AS, ) 

>  grandsons  of  Arkel, 
Golaud,  ) 

m^lisande. 

Little  Yniold,  son  of  Golaud  (by  a  former  marriage). 

A  Physician. 

The  Porter. 

Servants^  Beggars^  etc. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

ACT  FIRST. 

Scene  I.  —  The  gate  of  the  castle. 

MAIDSERVANTS    {withifl) . 

Open  the  gate  !     Open  the  gate  ! 

PORTER  {within). 

Who  is  there  ?  Why  do  you  come  and  wake 
me  up  ?  Go  out  by  the  little  gates ;  there  are 
enough  of  them  !  .  .  . 

A    MAIDSERVANT    (withifl) . 

We  have  come  to  wash  the  threshold,  the 
gate,  and  the  steps ;  open,  then  !  open  ! 

ANOTHER  MAIDSERVANT    {withiu) . 

There  are  going  to  be  great  happenings  ! 

THIRD    MAIDSERVANT   {tvithtfl) , 

There  are  going  to  be  great  fetes !  Open 
quickly !  .  .  . 


62  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

THE   MAIDSERVANTS. 

Open !  open ! 

PORTER. 

Wait !  wait !  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall 
be  able  to  open  it ;  ...  it  is  never  opened.  .  .  . 
Wait  till  it  is  light 

FIRST  MAIDSERVANT. 

It  is  light  enough  without ;  I  see  the  sunhght 
through  the  chinks.  .  .  . 

PORTER. 

Here  are  the  great  keys.  .  .  .  Oh!  oh !  how 
the  bolts  and  the  locks  grate  !  .  .  .  Help  me  ! 
help  me  1  .  .  . 

MAIDSERVANTS. 

We  are  pulling ;  we  are  pulling.  .  .  . 

SECOND   MAIDSERVANT. 

It  will  not  open.  ... 

FIRST  MAIDSERVANT. 

Ah  !  ah  !    It  is  opening  !  it  is  opening  slowly  ! 

PORTER. 

How  it  shrieks  !  how  it  shrieks  !  It  will  wake 
up  everybody.  .  .  . 

SECOND  MAIDSERVANT. 

\_Appearing  on  the  threshold?^  Oh,  how 
light  it  is  already  out-of-doors  ! 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  63 

FIRST  MAIDSERVANT. 

The  sun  is  rising  on  the  sea ! 

PORTER. 

It  is  open.  ...  It  is  wide  open !  .  .  . 

\^All  the  maidservants  appear  on  the  thresh-^ 
old  and  pass  over  it^ 

FIRST  MAIDSERVANT. 

I  am  going  to  wash  the  sill  first.  .  .  . 

SECOND  MAIDSERVANT. 

We  shall  never  be  able  to  clean  all  this. 

OTHER  MAIDSERVANTS. 

Fetch  the  water  !  fetch  the  water ! 

J>0RTER. 

Yes,  yes ;  pour  on  water ;  pour  on  water ;  pour 
on  all  the  water  of  the  Flood  !  You  will  never 
come  to  the  end  of  it.  .  .  . 

Scene  II.  —  A  forest,   Melisande  discovered  at 
the  brink  of  a  spring. 

Enter  Golaud. 

GOLAUD. 

I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  out  of  this  forest 
again.  —  God  knows  where  that  beast  has  led 
me.     And  yet  I  thought  I  had  wounded  him  to 


64  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

death ;  and  here  are  traces  of  blood.  But  now 
I  have  lost  sight  of  him ;  I  believe  I  am  lost 
myself — my  dogs  can  no  longer  find  me  —  I 
shall  retrace  my  steps.  ...  —  I  hear  weeping 
...  Oh  !  oh !  what  is  there  yonder  by  the 
water's  edge  ?  .  .  .  A  little  girl  weeping  by  the 
water's  edge  ?  [^He  coughs. ~\  —  She  does  not  hear 
me.  I  cannot  see  her  face.  [He  approaches 
and  touches  Melisande  on  the  shoulder,']  Why 
weepest  thou?  [Melisande  trembles,  starts  up, 
and  would  flee^  —  Do  not  be  afraid.  You  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Why  are  you  weeping  here 
all  alone? 

MlfeLISANDE. 

Do  not  touch  me  !  do  not  touch  me  1 

GOLAUD. 

Do  not  be  afraid.  ...  I  will  not  do  you 
any.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  are  beautiful ! 

melisande. 

Do  not  touch  me  !  do  not  touch  me  !  or  I 
throw  myself  in  the  water  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

I  will  not  touch  you.  .  .  .  See,  I  will  stay 
here,  against  the  tree.  Do  not  be  afraid.  Has 
any  one  hurt  you? 

melisande. 

Oh !  yes  !  yes !  yes  !  .  .  .  \^She  sobs  pro- 
foundly^ 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  65 

GOLAUD. 

Who  has  hurt  you? 

M^USANDE, 

Every  one  !  every  one  ! 

GOLAUD. 

What  hurt  have  they  done  you? 

MELISANDE. 

I  will  not  tell !     I  cannot  tell !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Come;    do  not  weep   so.      Whence  come 

you? 

MiUSANDE. 

I  have  fled !  .  .  .  fled  .  .  .  fled.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Yes ;  but  whence  have  you  fled? 

M^USANDE. 

I  am  lost !  .  .  .  lost !  .  .  ,  Oh !  oh !  lost 
here.  ...  I  am  not  of  this  place.  ...  I  was 
not  born  there.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Whence  are  you?    Where  were  you  bom? 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  oh  !  far  away  from  here  !  ...  far  away 
...  far  away.  .  .  . 


66  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 


GOLAUD. 

What  is  it  shining  so  at  the  bottom  of  the 
water? 

Mi:LISANDE. 

Where  ?  —  Ah  !  it  is  the  crown  he  gave  me. 
It  fell  as  I  was  weeping.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

A  crown  ?  —  Who  was  it  gave  you  a  crown  ? 
—  I  will  try  to  get  it.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no  ;  I  will  have  no  more  of  it !  I  will 
have  no  more  of  it !  ...  I  had  rather  die  .  .  . 
die  at  once.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

I  could  easily  pull  it  out.  The  water  is  not 
very  deep. 

MELISANDE. 

I  will  have  no  more  of  it !  If  you  take  it 
out,  I  throw  myself  in  its  place  I  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

No,  no ;  I  will  leave  it  there.  It  could  be 
reached  without  difficulty,  nevertheless.  It 
seems  very  beautiful.  —  Is  it  long  since  you 
fled? 

MELISANDE. 


Yes,  yes  !  .  .  .   Who  are  you  ? 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  67 

GOLAUD. 

I  am  Prince  Golaud,  —  grandson  of  Arkel,  the 
old  King  of  AUemonde.  .  .  . 

-   MELISANDE. 

Oh,  you  have  gray  hairs  already.  .  .  • 

GOLAUD. 

Yes ;  some,  here,  by  the  temples  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

And  in  your  beard,  too.  .  .  .  Why  do  you 

look  at  me  so? 

GOLAUD. 

I  am  looking  at  your  eyes.  —  Do  you  never 

shut  your  eyes? 

MELISANDE. 

Oh,  yes ;  I  shut  them  at  night.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Why  do  you  look  so  astonished? 

MELISANDE. 

You  are  a  giant? 

GOLAUD. 

I  am  a  man  like  the  rest.  .  .  • 

MELISANDE. 

Why  have  you  come  here  ? 


68  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GOLAUD. 

I  do  not  know,  myself.  I  was  hunting  in  the 
forest.  I  was  chasing  a  wild  boar.  I  mistook 
the  road.  —  You  look  very  young.  How  old 
are  you? 

Ml&LISANDE. 

I  am  beginning  to  be  cold.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Will  you  come  with  m^ 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no ;  I  will  stay  here.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

You  cannot  stay  here  all  alone.  You  cannot 
stay  here  all  night  long.  .  .  .  What  is  your 
name? 

MELISANDE. 

Melisande. 

GOLAUD. 

You  cannot  stay  here,  Melisande.  Come 
with  me.  ... 

Ml&LISANDE. 

I  will  stay  here.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

You  will  be  afraid,  all  alone.  We  do  not 
know  what  there  may  be  here  ...  all  night 
long  ...  all  alone  ...  it  is  impossible.  Me- 
lisande, come,  give  me  your  hand.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  69 

MIELISANDE. 

Oh,  do  not  touch  me  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Do  not  scream.  ...  I  will  not  touch  you 
again.  But  come  with  me.  The  night  will  be 
very  dark  and  very  cold.     Come  with  me.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Where  are  you  going  ?  ... 

GOLAUD. 

I   do  not   know.  ...  I  am  lost  too.  .  .  . 

\Exeunt 

Scene  III.  —  A  hall  in  the  castle,     Arkel  and 
GENEVit:vE  discovered, 

GENEVIEVE. 

Here  is  what  he  writes  to  his  brother  P^ll^as  : 
"  I  found  her  all  in  tears  one  evening,  beside  a 
spring  in  the  forest  where  I  had  lost  myself.  I 
do  not  know  her  age,  nor  who  she  is,  nor  whence 
she  comes,  and  I  dare  not  question  her,  for  she 
must  have  had  a  sore  fright ;  and  when  you  ask 
her  what  has  happened  to  her,  she  falls  at  once 
a-weeping  like  a  child,  and  sobs  so  heavily  you 
are  afraid.  Just  as  I  found  her  by  the  springs, 
a  crown  of  gold  had  slipped  from  her  hair  and 
fallen  to  the  bottom  of  the  water.  She  was 
clad,  besides,  like  a  princess,  though  her  gar- 


yo  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

ments  had  been  torn  by  the  briers.  It  is  now 
six  months  since  I  married  her  and  I  know  no 
more  about  it  than  on  the  day  of  our  meeting. 
Meanwhile,  dear  Pelleas,  thou  whom  I  love 
more  than  a  brother,  although  we  were  not 
born  of  the  same  father;  meanwhile  make 
ready  for  my  return.  ...  I  know  my  mother 
will  willingly  forgive  me.  But  I  am  afraid  of 
the  King,  our  venerable  grandsire,  I  am  afraid 
of  Arkel,  in  spite  of  all  his  kindness,  for  I  have 
undone  by  this  strange  marriage  all  his  plans  of 
state,  and  I  fear  the  beauty  of  Melisande  will 
not  excuse  my  folly  to  eyes  so  wise  as  his.  If 
he  consents  nevertheless  to  receive  her  as  he 
would  receive  his  own  daughter,  the  third  night 
following  this  letter,  light  a  lamp  at  the  top  of 
the  tower  that  overlooks  the  sea.  I  shall  per- 
ceive it  from  the  bridge  of  our  ship ;  otherwise 
I  shall  go  far  away  again  and  come  back  no 
more.  ..."  What  say  you  of  it? 

ARKEL. 

Nothing.  He  has  done  what  he  probably 
must  have  done.  I  am  very  old,  and  neverthe- 
less I  have  not  yet  seen  clearly  for  one  moment 
into  myself;  how  would  you  that  I  judge  what 
others  have  done?  I  am  not  far  from  the 
tomb  and  do  not  succeed  in  judging  myself. 
.  .  .  One  always  mistakes  when  one  does  not 
close  his  eyes.  -^  That  may  seem  strange  to  us ; 
but  that  is  all.  He  is  past  the  age  to  marry  and 
he  weds,  like  a  child,  a  little  girl  he  finds  by  a 
spring.  .  •  .  That    may   seem    strange    to   us. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  71 

because  we  never  see  but  the  reverse  of  desti- 
nies .  .  .  the  reverse  even  of  our  own.  ... 
He  has  always  followed  my  counsels  hitherto; 
I  had  thought  to  make  him  happy  in  send- 
ing him  to  ask  the  hand  of  Princess  Ursula. 
.  .  .  He  could  not  remain  alone  ;  since  the 
death  of  his  wife  he  has  been  sad  to  be  alone ; 
and  that  marriage  would  have  put  an  end  to 
long  wars  and  old  hatreds.  ...  He  would  not 
have  it  so.  Let  it  be  as  he  would  have  it;  I 
have  never  put  myself  athwart  a  destiny ;  and 
he  knows  better  than  I  his  future.  There  ?* 
happen  perhaps  no  useless  events.  .  .  .    "**'*^^ 

GENEVIEVE. 

He  has  always  been  so  prudent,  so  grave  and 
so  firm.  ...  If  it  were  P^Mas,  I  should  under- 
stand. .  .  .  But  he  ...  at  his  age.  .  .  .  Who 
is  it  he  is  going  to  introduce  here?  —  An  un- 
known found  along  the  roads.  .  .  .  Since  his 
wife's  death,  he  has  no  longer  lived  for  aught 
but  his  son,  the  little  Yniold,  and  if  he  were 
about  to  marry  again,  it  was  because  you  had 
wished  it.  .  .  .  And  now  ...  a  little  girl  in  the 
forest.  .  .  .  He  has  forgotten  everything.  .  .  . 
—  What  shall  we  do?  .  .  . 

Enter  PiiLL^AS. 

ARKEL. 

Who  is  coming  in  there  ? 

GENEVltVE. 

It  is  P^ll^as.     He  has  been  weeping. 


72  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

ARKEL. 

Is  it  thou,  Pelleas?  —  Come  a  little  nearer, 
that  I  may  see  thee  in  the  light.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Grandfather,  I  received  another  letter  at  the 
same  time  as  my  brother's ;  a  letter  from  my 
friend  Marcellus.  .  .  .  He  is  about  to  die  and 
calls  for  me.  He  would  see  me  before 
dying.  .  .  . 

^  ARKEL. 

Thou  wouldst  leave  before  thy  brother's 
return  ?  —  Perhaps  thy  friend  is  less  ill  than  he 
thinks.  .  *  . 

P^LL^AS. 

His  letter  is  so  sad  you  can  see  death  between 
the  lines.  .  .  .  He  says  he  knows  the  very  day 
when  death  must  come.  .  .  .  He  tells  me  I  can 
arrive  before  it  if  I  will,  but  that  there  is  no 
more  time  to  lose.  The  journey  is  very  long, 
and  if  I  await  Golaud's  return,  it  will  be  per- 
haps too  late.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Thou  must  wait  a  little  while,  nevertheless. 
.  .  .  We  do  not  know  what  this  return  has  in 
store  for  us.  And  besides,  is  not  thy  father 
here,  above  us,  more  sick  perhaps  than  thy 
friend.  .  .  .  Couldst  thou  choose  between  the 
father  and  the  friend?  .  .  •  [Exit, 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  73 


GENEVlt:VE. 


} 


Have  a  care  to  keep  the  lamp  lit  from  this 
evening,  P^ll^as.  .  .  . 

[Exeunt  severally. 


Scene  IV. — Before  the  castle.      Enter  Gene- 
vieve and  MELISANDE. 

MELISANDE. 

It  is  gloomy  in  the  gardens.  And  what 
forests,  what  forests  all  about  the  palaces  !  .  .  . 

GENEVIEVE. 

Yes;  that  astonished  me  too  when  I  came 
hither;  it  astonishes  everybody.  There  are 
places  where  you  never  see  the  sun.  But  one 
gets  used  to  it  so  quickly.  .  o  .  It  is  long  ago, 
it  is  long  ago.  ...  It  is  nearly  lorty  years  that 
I  have  lived  here.  .  .  .  Look  toward  the  other 
side,  you  will  have  the  light  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  hear  a  noise  below  us.  .  .  . 

GENEVli:VE. 

Yes;  it  is  some  one  coming  up  toward  us. 
...  Ah !  it  is  Pelleas.  .  .  .  He  seems  still 
tired  from  having  waited  so  long  for  you.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

He  has  not  seen  us. 


74  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GENEVlfeVE. 

I  think  he  has  seen  us  but  does  not  know 
what  he  should  do.  .  .  .  P^ll^as,  Pelleas,  is  it 
thou?  .  .  . 

Enter  Pelleas. 

,  P^LL^AS. 

Yes !  .  .  .  I  was  coming  toward  the  sea.  .  .  . 

GENEVlfeVE. 

So  were  we ;  we  were  seeking  the  Hght.  It 
is  a  Httle  Hghter  here  than  elsewhere ;  and  yet 
the  sea  is  gloomy, 

PlfeLL^AS. 

We  shall  have  a  storm  to-night.  There  has 
been  one  every  night  for  some  time,  and  yet  it 
is  so  calm  now.  .  .  .  One  might  embark  un- 
wittingly and  come  back  no  more. 

MlfeLISANDE. 

Something  is  leaving  the  port.  .  .  . 

P^LLl&AS. 

It  must  be  a  big  ship.  .  .  .  The  lights  are 
very  high,  we  shall  see  it  in  a  moment,  when  it 
enters  the  band  of  light.  .  •  . 

GENEVlfeVE. 

I  do  not  know  whether  we  shall  be  able  to  see 
it  .  .  .  there  is  still  a  fog  on  the  sea.  .  .  . 

P^LLl&AS. 

The  fog  seems  to  be  rising  slowly.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  75 

M^LISANDE. 

Yes ;  I  see  a  little  light  down  there,  which  I 
had  not  seen.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  lighthouse ;  there  are  others  we  can- 
not see  yet. 

MELISANDE. 

The  ship  is  in  the  light.  ...  It  is  already 
very  far  away.  .  .  . 

I>±IA±AS. 

It  is  a  foreign  ship.  It  looks  larger  than 
ours.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

It  is  the  ship  that  brought  me  here !  .  .  . 

IPthhtAS, 

It  flies  away  under  full  sail.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

It  is  the  ship  that  brought  me  here.  It  has 
great  sails.  ...  I  recognized  it  by  its  sails. 

Pi:LL]feAS. 

There  will  be  a  rough  sea  to-night. 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Why  does  it  go  away  to-night?  .  .  .  You  can 
hardly  see  it  any  longer.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  will  be 
wrecked.  ... 


*]6  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 


P^LLEAS. 

The  night  falls  very  quickly. 

GENEVIEVE. 


[^A  silence. 


No  one  speaks  any  more?  .  .  .  You  have 
nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other?  ...  It  is 
time  to  go  in.  P^ll^as,  show  M^Hsande  the 
way.     I  must  go  see  little  Yniold  a  moment. 

\_Exit 

P^LL^AS. 

Nothing  can  be  seen  any  longer  on  the 
sea.  •  •  • 

MELISANDE. 

I  see  more  lights. 

P^LL^AS. 

It  is  the  other  lighthouses.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear 
the  sea  ?  ...  It  is  the  wind  rising.  .  .  .  Let  us 
go  down  this  way.    Will  you  give  me  your  hand  ? 

Mi:LISANDE. 

See,  see,  my  hands  are  full.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

I  will  hold  you  by  the  arm,  the  road  is  steep 
and  it  is  very  gloomy  there.  ...  I  am  going 
away  perhaps  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  .  .  .  why  do  you  go  away  ? 

[^Exeunf, 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  I.  —  A  fountain  in  the  park. 
Enter  Pi:LL]fcAS  and  Melisande. 

P^LL^AS. 

You  do  not  know  where  I  have  brought  you? 

—  I  often  come  to  sit  here,  toward  noon,  when 
it  is  too  hot  in  the  gardens.  It  is  stifling  to-day, 
even  in  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

Mi:LISANDE. 

Oh,  how  clear  the  water  is  !  .  •  . 

P^LL^AS. 

It  is  as  cool  as  winter.     It  is  an  old  aban- 
doned spring.    It  seems  to  have  been  a  miracu-  g 
lous  spring,  —  it  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  \ 

—  they  still  call  it  ".Blind  Man's  Spring."  '"^ 

Mi:LISANDE. 

It  no  longer  opens  the  eyes  of  the  blind  ? 

Since  the  King  has  been  nearly  blind  himself, 
no  one  comes  any  more.  .  .  . 


78  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

MELISANDE. 

How  alone  one  is  here  1  .  .  .  There  is  no 
sound. 

P]i:LL6AS. 

1  here  is  always  a  wonderful  silence  here.  .  .  . 
One  could  hear  the  water  sleep.  .  .  .  Will  you 
sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the  marble  basin? 
There  is  one  linden  where  the  sun  never 
comes.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  am  going  to  lie  down  on  the  marble.  —  I 
should  like  to  see  the  bottom  of  the  water.  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

No  one  has  ever  seen  it.  —  It  is  as  deep, 
perhaps,  as  the  sea.  —  It  is  not  known  whence 
it  comes.  —  Perhaps  it  comes  from  the  bottom 
of  the  earth.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

If  there  were  anything  shining  at  the  bottom, 
perhaps  one  could  see  it.  .  .  . 

p6LLi:AS. 

Do  not  lean  over  so.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  would  like  to  touch  the  water.  .  .  • 

P^LL^AS. 

Have,  a  care  of  slipping.  ...  I  will  hold 
your  hand.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  79 

Ml&LISANDE. 

No,  no,  I  would  plunge  both  hands  in  it.  .  .  . 
You  would  say  my  hands  were  sick  to-day.  .  .  . 

PlfeLLEAS. 

Oh  !  oh  !  take  care  !  take  care  !  Melisande  ! 
.  .  .  Melisande  !  .  .  .  —  Oh  !  your  hair !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE  {starting  upright^ . 
I  cannot,  «  .  •  I  cannot  reach  it.  .  .  . 

Pl^LL^AS. 

Your  hair  dipped  in  the  water.  •  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Yes,  it  is  longer  than  my  arms.  ...  It  is 
longer  than  I.  .  .  .  \A  silence, 

p6ll6as. 

It  was  at  the  brink  of  a  spring,  too,  that  he 
found  you? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

What  did  he  say  to  you? 

MlfeLISANDE. 

Nothing ;  —  I  no  longer  remember.  .  .  • 

PlfeLL^AS. 

Was  he  quite  near  you  ? 


8o  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

mi:lisande. 
Yes ;  he  would  have  kissed  me. 

PlfeLL^AS. 

And  you  would  not? 

MELISANDE. 

No. 

PlfcLL^AS. 

Why  would  you  not? 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  oh  !  I  saw  something  pass  at  the  bottom 
of  the  water.  .  .  . 

PlfcLLlfcAS. 

Take  care  !   take   care  !  —  You  will   fall ! 
What  are  you  playing  with? 

MELISANDE. 

With  the  ring  he  gave  me.  .  .  . 

PlELLl^AS. 

Take  care ;  you  will  lose  it.  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

No,  no  j  I  am  sure  of  my  hands.  .  .  . 

PlfeLLl&AS.  

Do  not  play  so,  over  so  deep  a  water.  .  •  . 

MELISANDE. 

My  hands  do  not  tremble. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  8i 

PiiLL^AS. 

How   it   shines  in   the   sunlight !  —  Do  not 
throw  it  so  high  in  the  air.  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Oh!  .  .  . 

Pi:LL]fcAS. 

It  has  fallen? 

MlfcLISANDE. 

It  has  fallen  into  the  water  !  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

Where  is  it?     where  is  it?  .  .  , 

MlfeLISANDE. 

I  do  not  see  it  sink^  .  .  . 

p6ll6as. 
I  think  I  see  it  shine.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

My  ring? 

P^LL^AS. 

Yes,  yes ;  down  yonder.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  oh  !     It  is  so  far  away  from  us !  .  .  . 
no,  no,  that  is  not  it  .  .  .  that  is  not  it  ...  * 
It  is  lost  .  .  .  lost.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  any   ' 
more  but  a  great  circle  on  the  water.  .  .  .  What 
shall  we  do?     What  shall  we  do  now?  .  .  . 
6 


82  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

You  need  not  be  so  troubled  for  a  ring.  It 
is  nothing.  .  .  .  We  shall  find  it  again,  perhaps. 
Or  else  we  will  find  another.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no  ;  we  shall  never  find  it  again ;  we 
shall  never  find  any  others  either.  .  .  .  And  yet 
I  thought  I  had  it  in  my  hands.  ...  I  had 
already  shut  my  hands,  and  it  is  fallen  in  spite  of 
all.  ...  I  threw  it  too  high,  toward  the  sun.  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

Come,  come,  we  will  come  back  another  day ; 
.  .  .  come,  it  is  time.  They  will  come  to 
meet  us.  It  was  striking  noon  at  the  moment 
the  ring  fell. 

MELISANDE. 

What  shall  we  say  to  Golaud  if  he  ask  where 
it  is? 

The  truth,  the  truth,  the  truth.  .  .  . 


Scene  II.  —  An  apartment  in  the  castle.  Go- 
laud  discovered,  stretched  upon  his  bed; 
MiiLiSANDE,  by  his  bedside. 

golaud. 

Ah !   ah !  all   goes  well ;  it  will  amount   to 
nothing.      But   I    cannot   understand    how   it 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  83 

came  to  pass.  I  was  hunting  quietly  in  the 
forest.  All  at  once  my  horse  ran  away,  with- 
out cause.  Did  he  see  anything  unusual  ?  .  .  . 
I  had  just  heard  the  twelve  strokes  of  noon. 
At  the  twelfth  stroke  he  suddenly  took  fright 
and  ran  like  a  blind  madman  against  a  tree. 
I  heard  no  more.  I  do  not  yet  know  what 
happened.  I  fell,  and  he  must  have  fallen  on 
me.  I  thought  I  had  the  whole  forest  on  my 
breast ;  I  thought  my  heart  was  crushed.  But 
my  heart  is  sound.   It  is  nothing,  apparently.  .  .  . 

Ml^LISANDE. 

Would  you  like  a  little  water? 

GOLAUD. 

Thanks,  thanks ;  I  am  not  thirsty. 

MELISANDE. 

Would  you  like  another  pillow?  •  .  .  There 
is  a  little  spot  of  blood  on  this. 

GOLAUD. 

No,  no ;  it  is  not  worth  while.  I  bled  at 
the  mouth  just  now.  I  shall  bleed  again 
perhaps.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Are  you  quite  sure?  .  .  .  You  are  not  suf- 
fering too  much? 

GOLAUD. 

No,  no ;  I  have  seen  a  good  many  more  like 
this.     I  was  made  of  iron  and  blood.  .  .  .  These 


84  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

are  not  the   little   bones  of  a  child;   do    not 
alarm  yourself.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Close  your  eyes  and  try  to  sleep.  I  shall 
stay  here  all  night.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

No,  no ;  I  do  not  wish  you  to  tire  yourself 
so.  I  do  not  need  anything ;  I  shall  sleep  like 
a  child.  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter,  Melisande? 
Why  do  you  weep  all  at  once  ?  .  .  .  . 

MELISANDE  {bursHfig  ifito  tcars) . 
I  am  ...  I  am  ill  too.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Thou  art  ill?  .  .  .  What  ails  thee,  then; 
what  ails  thee,  Melisande?  ... 

MELISANDE. 

I  do  not  know.  ...  I  am  ill  here.  .  .  . 
I  had  rather  tell  you  to-day ;  my  lord,  my  lord, 
I  am  not  happy  here.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

Why,  what  has  happened,  Melisande  ?  What 
is  it?  .  .  .  And  I  suspecting  nothing.  .  .  .  What 
has  happened?  .  .  .  Some  one  has  done  thee 
harm?  .  .  .  Some  one  has  given  thee  offence? 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no ;  no  one  has  done  me  the  least  harm. 
.  .  .  It  is  not  that.  .  .  .  It  is  not  that.  .  .  .  But 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  85 

I  can  live  here  no  longer.  I  do  not  know 
why.  ...  I  would  go  away,  go  away !  .  .  .  I 
shall  die  if  I  am  left  here.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

But  something  has  happened?  You  must 
be  hiding  something  from  me?  .  .  .  Tell  me 
the  whole  truth,  Melisande.  ...  Is  it  the  King  ? 
...  Is  it  my  mother  ?  ...  Is  it  P^ll^as  ?  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no  ;  it  is  not  P^ll^as.  It  is  not  anybody. 
.  .  .  You  could  not  understand  me.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Why  should  I  not  understand?  ...  If  you 
tell  me  nothing,  what  will  you  have  me  do  ?  .  .  . 
Tell  me  everything  and  I  shall  understand 
everything. 

MELISANDE. 

I  do  not  know  myself  what  it  is.  ...  I  do  not 
know  just  what  it  is.  ...  If  I  could  tell  you,  I 
would  tell  you.  ...  It  is  something  stronger 
than  I.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Come ;  be  reasonable,  Melisande.  —  What 
would  you  have  me  do  ?  —  You  are  no  longer  a 
child.  —  Is  it  I  whom  you  would  leave  ? 

MELISANDE. 

Oh !  no,  no ;  it  is  not  that.  ...  I  would  go 
away  with  you.  ...  It  is  here  that  I  can  live  no 


86  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

longer.  ...  I  feel  that  I  shall  not  live  a  long 
while.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

But  there  must  be  a  reason  nevertheless.  You 
will  be  thought  mad.  It  will  be  thought  child's 
dreams.  —  Come,  is  it  P^ll^as,  perhaps  ?  —  I 
think  he  does  not  often  speak  to  you. 

M]ELISANDE. 

Yes,  yes;  he  speaks  to  me  sometimes.  I 
think  he  does  not  like  me ;  I  have  seen  it  in 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  But  he  speaks  to  me  when  he 
meets  me.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

You  must  not  take  it  ill  of  him.  He  has 
always  been  so.  He  is  a  little  strange.  And 
just  now  he  is  sad;  he  thinks  of  his  friend 
Marcellus,  who  is  at  the  point  of  death,  and 
whom  he  cannot  go  to  see.  .  .  .  He  will  change, 
he  will  change,  you  will  see ;  he  is  young.  ... 

M^LISANDE. 

But  it  is  not  that  ...  it  is  not  that.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

What  is  it,  then?  —  Can  you  not  get  used  to 
the  life  one  leads  here  ?  Is  it  too  gloomy  here  ? 
—  It  is  true  the  castle  is  very  old  and  very 
sombre.  ...  It  is  very  cold,  and  very  deep. 
And  all  those  who  dwell  in  it,  are  already  old. 
And  the  country  may  seem  gloomy  too,  with  all 
its  forests,  all  its  old  forests  without  light.     But 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  87 

that  may  all  be  enlivened  if  we  will.  And 
then,  joy,  joy,  one  does  not  have  it  every  day ; 
we  must  take  things  as  they  come.  But  tell 
me  something;  no  matter  what;  I  will  do 
everything  you  could  wish.  .  .  ,. 

Ml^LISANDE. 

Yes,  yes ;  it  is  true.  .  .  .  You  never  see  the 
sky  here.  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time  this 
morning.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

It  is  that,  then,  that  makes  you  weep,  my 
poor  M^Hsande? —  It  is  only  that,  then?  —  You 
weep,  not  to  see  the  sky?  —  Come,  come,  you 
are  no  longer  at  the  age  when  one  may  weep 
for  such  things.  .  .  .  And  then,  is  not  the  sum- 
-«ier  yonder?  You  will  see  the  sky  every  day. 
—  And  then,  next  year.  .  .  .  Come,  give  me 
your  hand ;  give  me  both  your  little  hands. 
[He  takes  her  hands. '\  Oh  !  oh  !  these  little 
hands  that  I  could  crush  like  flowers.  ...  — 
Hold  !  where  is  the  ring  I  gave  you  ? 

MELISANDE. 

The  ring? 

GOLAUD. 

Yes;  our  wedding-ring,  where  is  it? 

MELISANDE. 

I  think  ...  I  think  it  has  fallen.  .  .  • 

GOLAUD. 

Fallen?  —  Where  has  it  fallen? — You  have 
not  lost  it? 


88  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no ;  it  fell  ...  it  must  have  fallen  .  .  . 
but  I  know  where  it  is.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Where  is  it? 

You  know  .  .  .  you  know  well  .  ,  .  the 
grotto  by  the  seashore  ?  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Yes. 

MlfeLISANDE. 

Well  then,  it  is  there.  ...  It  must  be  it 
is  there.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes ;  I  remember.  ...  I 
went  there  this  morning  to  pick  up  shells  for 
little  Yniold.  .  .  .  There  were  some  very  fine 
ones.  ...  It  slipped  from  my  finger  .  .  .  then 
the  sea  came  in ;  and  I  had  to  go  out  before  I 
had  found  it. 

GOLAUD. 

Are  you  sure  it  is  there  ? 

MlfcLlSANDE. 

Yes,  yes ;  quite  sure.  ...  I  felt  it  slip  .  .  • 
then,  all  at  once,  the  noise  of  the  waves.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

You  must  go  look  for  it  at  once. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  89 

MlfeLISANDE. 

I  must  go  look  for  it  at  once  ? 

GOLAUD. 

Yes. 

MlfeLISANDE. 

Now?  —  at  once ?  —  in  the  dark? 

GOLAUD. 

Now,  at  once,  in  the  dark.  You  must  go 
look  for  it  at  once.  I  had  rather  have  lost  all 
I  have  than  have  lost  that  ring.  You  do  not 
know  what  it  is.  You  do  not  know  whence  it 
came.  The  sea  will  be  very  high  to-night. 
The  sea  will  come  to  take  it  before  you.  .  .  . 
Make  haste.  You  must  go  look  for  it  at 
once.  .  .  . 

Mi:LISANDE. 

I  dare  not.  ...  I  dare  not  go  alone.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Go,  go  with  no  matter  whom.  But  you  must 
go  at  once,  do  you  understand  ?  —  Make  haste ; 
ask  P^ll^as  to  go  with  you. 

MELISANDE. 

Pelleas  ?  —  With  Pelleas  ?  —  But  P^ll^as  would 
not.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

P^ll^as  will  do  all  you  ask  of  him.  I  know 
P^ll^as  better  than  you  do.  Go,  go ;  hurry  !  I 
shall  not  sleep  until  I  have  the  ring. 


^o  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Oh  !  oh  !  I  am  not  happy  !  ...  I  am  not 
happy !  .  .  . 

[^Exit,  weeping. 


Scene  III.  —  Before  a  grotto. 
Enter  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

P^LL^AS. 

\Speaking  with  great  agitation^  Yes  ;  it  is 
here ;  we  are  there.  It  is  so  dark  you  cannot 
tell  the  entrance  of  the  grotto  from  the  rest  of 
the  night.  .  .  .  There  are  no  stars  on  this  side. 
Let  us  wait  till  the  moon  has  torn  through  that 
great  cloud  ;  it  will  light  up  the  w^hole  grotto, 
and  then  we  can  enter  without  danger.  There 
are  dangerous  places,  and  the  path  is  very  nar- 
row between  two  lakes  whose  bottom  has  not 
yet  been  found.  I  did  not  think  to  bring  a 
torch  or  a  lantern,  but  I  think  the  light  of  the 
sky  will  be  enough  for  us.  —  You  have  never 
gone  into  this  grotto? 

MELISANDE. 

No.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

Let  us  go  in ;  let  us  go  in.  .  .  .  You  must  be 
able  to  describe  the  place  where  you  lost  the 
ring,  if  he  questions  you.  ...  It  is  very  big 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  91 

and  very  beautiful.  There  are  stalactites  that 
look  like  plants  and  men.  It  is  full  of  blue 
darks.  It  has  not  yet  been  explored  to  the 
end.  There  are  great  treasures  hidden  there, 
it  seems.  You  will  see  the  remains  of  ancient 
shipwrecks  there.  But  you  must  not  go  far  in 
it  without  a  guide.  There  have  been  some 
who  never  have  come  back.  I  myself  dare  not 
go  forward  too  far.  We  will  stop  the  moment 
we  no  longer  see  the  light  of  the  sea  or  the  sky. 
When  you  strike  a  little  light  there,  you  would 
aay  the  vault  was  covered  with  stars  like  the 
sky.  It  is  bits  of  crystal  or  salt,  they  say,  that 
shine  so  in  the  rock.  — Look,  look,  I  think  the 
sky  is  going  to  clear.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand ; 
do  not  tremble,  do  not  tremble  so.  There 
is  no  danger ;  we  will  stop  the  moment  we  no 
longer  see  the  light  of  the  sea.  ...  Is  it  the 
noise  of  the  grotto  that  frightens  you?  It  is 
the  noise  of  night  or  the  noise  of  silence.  .  .  . 
Do  you  hear  the  sea  behind  us?  —  It  does 
not  seem  happy  to-night.  ...  Ah  !  look,  the 
light!  .  .  . 

[The  moon  lights  up  abundantly  the  entrance 
and  part  of  the  darkness  of  the  grotto  ;  and 
at  a  certain  depth  are  seen  three  old  beggars 
with  white  hair,  seated  side  by  side,  lean- 
ing upon  each  other  aad  asleep  against  a 
bowlder.] 


Ah! 
What  is  it? 


M&LTSANDE. 
pfeLLlfcAS. 


92  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

me:lisande. 

There  are  .  .  .  there  are.  .  .  . 

[She  points  out  the  three  beggars. 

P^LLlfeAS. 

Yes,  yes ;  I  have  seen  them  too.  •  .  . 

Ml^LISANDE. 

Let  us  go  !  .  .  .  Let  us  go  !  .  .  . 

P]&ll£as. 

Yes  ...  it  is  three  old  poor  men  fallen  asleep. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  famine  in  the  country.  .  .  . 
Why  have  they  come  to  sleep  here  ?  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Let  us  go !  ...  Come,  come.  .  .  .  Let 
us  go  !  .  .  . 

P^IX^AS. 

Take  care ;  do  not  speak  so  loud.  .  .  .  Let 
us  not  wake  them.  .  .  .  They  are  still  sleeping 
heavily.  .  .  .  Come. 

MELISANDE. 

Leave  me,  leave  me ;  I  prefer  to  walk 
alone.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

We  will  come  back  another  day.  .  .  .  [Exeunt. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  93 


Scene  IV.  —  An  apartment  in  the  castle, 
Arkel  and  Pelleas  discovered, 

ARKEL. 

You  see  that  everything  retains  you  here  just 
now  and  forbids  you  this  useless  journey.  We 
have  concealed  your  father's  condition  from 
you  until  now ;  but  it  is  perhaps  hopeless ;  and 
that  alone  should  suffice  to  stop  you  on  the 
threshold.  But  there  are  so  many  other  rea- 
sons. .  .  .  And  it  is  not  in  the  day  when  our 
enemies  awake,  and  when  the  people  are  dying 
of  hunger  and  murmur  about  us,  that  you  have 
the  right  to  desert  us.  And  why  this  journey? 
Marcellus  is  dead ;  and  life  has  graver  duties 
than  the  visit  to  a  tomb.  You  are  weary,  you 
say,  of  your  inactive  life  ;  but  activity  and  duty 
are  not  found  on  the  highways.  They  must  be 
waited  for  upon  the  threshold,  and  let  in  as  they 
go  by ;  and  they  go  by  every  day.  You  have 
never  seen  them  ?  I  hardly  see  them  any  more 
myself;  but  I  will  teach  you  to  see  them,  and  I 
will  point  them  out  to  you  the  day  when  you 
would  make  them  a  sign.  Nevertheless,  listen 
to  me ;  if  you  believe  it  is  from  the  depths  of 
your  life  this  journey  is  exacted,  I  do  not  for- 
bid your  undertaking  it,  fox  you  must  know 
better  than  I  the  events  you  must  offer  to  yoiiF* 
being  o7  your  <^(atg>  I  shall  ask  you  only  to^ 
wait  untiT'w^ntfiow  what  musj  take  place  ere 
long.  .  .  . 


94         Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

PELLEAS. 

How  long  must  I  wait  ? 

ARKEL. 

A  few  weeks  ;  perhaps  a  few  days.  .  . 
I  wfll  wait.  .  .  . 


ACT  THIRD. 

Scene  I.  —  An  apartment  in  the  castle.  Pel- 
leas  a7id  Melisande  discovered,  Melisande 
plies  her  distaff  at  the  back  of  the  room. 

P^LL^AS. 

Yniold  does  not  come  back;  where  has  he 
gone? 

melisande. 

He  had  heard  something  in  the  corridor ;  he 
has  gone  to  see  what  it  is. 


M^Usande. 
What  is  it? 


vt\A±k^, 


MELISANDE. 


P^LL^AS. 

.  .  .  Can  you  see  still  to  work  there  ?  .  .  . 

melisande. 
I  work  as  well  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 

P^LLlfeAS. 

I  think  everybody  is  already  asleep  in  the 
castle.  Golaud  does  not  come  back  from  the 
chase.  It  is  late,  nevertheless.  ...  He  no 
longer  suffers  from  his  fall?  .  .  . 


96  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

MELISANDE. 

He  said  he  no  longer  suffered  from  it. 

PfiLL^AS. 

He  must  be  more  prudent ;  his  body  is  no 
longer  as  supple  as  at  twenty  years.  ...  I  see 
the  stars  through  the  window  and  the  light  of 
the  moon  on  the  trees.  It  is  late  ;  he  will  not 
come  back  now.  \Knocking  at  the  doorJ\ 
Who  is  there  ?  .  .   .  Come  in  !   .  .  . 

Little  Yniold  opens  the  door  and  enters  the 
7'oom, 

It  was  you  knocking  so?  .  .  .  That  is  not 
the  way  to  knock  at  doors.  It  is  as  if  a  mis- 
fortune had  arrived  \  look,  you  have  frightened 
little  mother. 

LITTLE    YNIOLD. 

I  only  knocked  a  tiny  little  bit, 

PELLEAS. 

It  is  late ;  little  father  will  not  come  back 
to-night ;  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed. 

LITTLE   YNIOLD. 

I  shall  not  go  to  bed  before  you  do. 

Pl^LLEAS. 

What?  .  .  .  What  is  that  you  are  saying? 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  97 

LITTLE   YNIOLD. 

I  say  .  .  .  not  before  you  .  .  ,  not  before 
you  .  .  . 

[^Bursts  into  sobs  and  takes  refuge  by 
Melisande.] 

melisande. 

What  is  it,  Yniold?  .  .  .  What  is  it?  .  .  . 
why  do  you  weep  all  at  once  ? 

YNIOLD  (sobbing). 
Because  ...  oh !  oh  !  because  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Because     what?  .  .  .  Because     what?  .  .  . 
Tell  me  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Little    mother  .  .  .  little    mother  .  .  .  you 
are  going  away.  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

But  what  has  taken  hold  of  you,  Yniold?  .  .  . 
I  have  never  dreamed  of  going  away.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  you  have ;  yes,  you  have ;   little  father 
has  gone  away.  .  .  .  Little  father  does  not  come 
back,  and  you  are  going  to  go  away  too.  ...  I 
have  seen  it  ...  I  have  seen  it.  .  •  . 
7 


98  Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

M^LISANDE. 

But  there  has  never  been  any  idea  of  that, 
Yniold.  .  .  .  Why,  what  makes  you  think  that 
I  would  go  away?  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

I  have  seen  it  ...  I  have  seen  it.  .  .  .  You 
have  said  things  to  uncle  that  I  could  not 
hear  .  .  . 

p6ll6as. 

He  is  sleepy.  .  .  .  He  has  been  dreaming.  .  .  . 
Come  here,  Yniold;  asleep  already?  .  .  » 
Come  and  look  out  at  the  window ;  the  swans 
are  fighting  with  the  dogs.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD  {at  the  windoiu) . 

Oh  !  oh  !  they  are  chasing  the  dogs  !  .  .  . 
They  are  chasing  them  !  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  the 
water  !  .  .  .  the  wings  !  .  .  the  wings  1  .  .  . 
they  are  afraid.  .  .  . 

p^LL^AS  (coming  back  by  melisande)  . 

He  is  sleepy ;  he  is  struggling  against  sleep ; 
his  eyes  were  closing.  .  .  . 

\    MifcLiSANDE  {singing  softly  as  she  spins) . 

Saint  Daniel  and  Saint  Michael.  .  .  . 
Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Raphael.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD  {at  the  zmndoTv). 
Oh  !  oh  !  litde  mother !  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.  99 

mi:lisande  {rising  abruptly) . 
What  is  it,  Yniold?  .  .  .  What  is  it?  .  .  • 

YNIOLD. 

I  sav/  something  at  the  window?  .  .  . 
[Pelleas  afid  Melisande  run  to  the  window. 

PELLEAS. 

What  is  there  at  the  window?  .  .  .  What 
have   you   seen?  ... 

YNIOLD. 

Oh !  oh  !   I  saw  something !  .  .  . 

p6ll6as. 
But  there  is  nothing.     I  see  nothing.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Nor  I.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Where  did  you  see  something?  Which 
way?  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Down    there,    down    there !  ...  It    is    no 

longer  there.  .  .  . 

p]6ll6as. 

He  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying.  He 
must  have  seen  the  hght  of  the  moon  on  the 
forest.  There  are  often  strange  reflections,  ... 
or  else   something   must   have   passed  on  the 


lOO        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

highway  ...  or  in  his  sleep.     For  see,  see,  I 
believe  he  is  quite  asleep.  .  .  . 

YNiOLD  (at  the  window) . 
Little  father  is  there  !   little  father  is  there  ! 

PELLEAS  {going  to  the  window). 

He  is  right;  Golaud  is  coming  into  the 
courtyard.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Little  father !  .  .  ;  little  father !  ...  I  am 
going  to  meet  him  !  .  .  . 

\_Exit,  running,  —  A  silence. 

PELLEAS. 

They  are  coming  up  the  stair.  .  .  . 
Enter  Golaud  and  little  Yniold  with  a  lamp. 

GOLAUD. 

You  are  still  waiting  in  the  dark? 

YNIOLD. 

I  have  brought  a  light,  little  mother,  a  big 
light  !  .  .  .  \He  lifts  the  lamp  and  looks  at 
Mi:lisande.]  You  have  been  weeping,  little 
mother?  .  .  .  You  have  been  weeping?  .  .  . 
\_He  lifts  the  lamp  toward  Pelleas  and  looks 
in  turn  at  him.~\  You  too,  you  too,  you  have 
been  weeping?  .  .  .  Little  father,  look,  little 
father ;    they  have  both  been  weeping.   .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         loi 

GOLAUD. 

Do   not    hold    the    Hght    under    their   eyes 


so. 


Scene  II.  —  One  of  the  towers  of  the  castle,  — 
A  watchman'' s  round  passes  under  a  window 
in  the  tower, 

Melisande   (at  the  window^  combing  her 
unbound  hair). 


CC  ^  onrC^Vnal 


Enter  Pelleas  by  the  watchman's  round. 

PELLEAS. 

Hola !  Hola  1  ho  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

WJio  is  there  ? 

P^LLl&AS. 

I,  I,  and  I  !  .  .  .  What  art  thou  doing  there 
at  the  window,  singing  Uke  a  bird  that  is  not 
native  here? 


I02        Pejleas  and  Melisande. 

MELISANDE. 

I  am  doing  my  hair  for  the  night.  .  .  • 

PELLEAS. 

Is  it  that  I  see  upon  the  wall?  ...  I 
thought  you  had  some  light.  .   .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  have  opened  the  window ;  it  is  too  hot  in 
the  tower.  .  .   .  It  is  beautiful  to-night.   .  .  . 

P^LLlfcAS. 

There  are  innumerable  stars;  I  have  never 
seen  so  many  as  to-night;  .  .  .  but  the  moon 
is  still  upon  the  sea.  ...  Do  not  stay  in  the 
shadow,  Melisande  ;  lean  forward  a  little  till  I 
see  your  unbound  hair.  ... 

M^XISANDE. 

I  am  frightful  so.  .  .  . 

[She  leans  out  at  the  window, 

Pl&LLEAS. 

Oh !  oh !  Melisande !  ...  oh,  thou  art 
beautiful !  .  .  .  thou  art  beautiful  so !  .  .  . 
Lean  out !  lean  out !  .  .  .  Let  me  come  nearer 
thee  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  cannot  come  nearer  thee.  ...  I  am  lean- 
ing out  as  far  as   I  can.  .   .   . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         103 

F±U±AS. 

I  cannot  come  up  higher ;  .  .  .  give  me  at 
least  thy  hand  to-night  .  .  .  before  I  go 
away.  ...  I  leave  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no,  no  !  .  .  . 

P^LLlfcAS. 

Yes,  yes,  yes ;  I  leave,  I  shall  leave  to- 
morrow. .  .  .  Give  me  thy  hand,  thy  hand,  thy 
little  hand  upon  my  lips.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  give  thee  not  my  hand  if  thou  wilt 
leave.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Give,  give,  give  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  ?  .  .  . 

PjfeLLlfcAS.  * 

I  will  wait ;    I  will  wait.  .  .  • 

MELISANDE. 

I  see  a  rose  in  the  shadows.  ... 

P^LLi:AS. 

Where  ?  ...  I  see  only  the  boughs  of  the 
willow  hanging  over  the  wall.  .  .  . 


I04        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

M^LISANDE. 

Further  down,  further  down,  in  the  garden ; 
further  down,  in  the  sombre  green.  .  .  . 

P:feLLEAS. 

It  is  not  a  rose.  ...  I  will  go  see  by  and 
by,  but  give  me  thy  hand  first;  first  thy 
hand.  ... 

MELISANDE. 

There,  there;  ...  I  cannot  lean  out 
further.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

I  cannot  reach  thy  hand  with  my  lips.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  cannot  lean  out  further.  ...  I  am  on  the 
point  of  falling.  .  .  .  —  Oh  !  oh  !  my  hair  is  fall- 
ing down  the  tower  !  .  .  . 

\Her  tresses  fall  suddenly  over  her  head,  as 
she  is  leaning  out  so,  and  stream   over 

P^LL^AS.] 

P^LLlfcAS. 

Oh  !  oh  !  what  is  it?  .  .  .  Thy  hair,  thy  hair 
is  falling  down  to  me  !  .  .  .  All  thy  locks, 
M^Usande,  all  thy  locks  have  fallen  down  the 
tower  !  .  .  .  I  hold  them  in  my  hands ;  I  hold 
them  in  my  mouth.  ...  I  hold  them  in  my 
arms ;  I  put  them  about  my  neck.  ...  I  will 
not  open  my  hands  again  to-night.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.    •    105 

MELISANDE. 

Let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !  .  .  .  Thou  wilt  make 
me  fall !  .  .  . 

PELLlfcAS. 

No,  no,  no;  ...  I  have  never  seen  such 
hair  as  thine,  M^Hsande  !  .  .  .  See,  see,  see ; 
it  cpmes  from  so  high  and  yet  it  floods  me  to 
the  heart!  .  .  .  And  yet  it  floods  me  to  the 
knees  !  .  .  .  And  it  is  sweet,  sweet  as  if  it  fell 
from  heaven  !  .  .  .  I  see  the  sky  no  longer 
through  thy  locks.  Thou  seest,  thou  seest? 
...  I  can  no  longer  hold  them  with  both 
hands ;  there  are  some  on  the  boughs  of  the 
willow.  .  .  .  They  are  alive  like  birds  in  my 
hands,  .  .  .  and  they  love  me,  they  love  me 
more  than  thou  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Let  me  go ;  let  me  go  !  .  .  .  Some  one  might 
come.  .  .  . 

P^LLlfcAS. 

No,  no,  no ;  I  shall  not  set  thee  free  to-night. 
.  .  .  Thou  art  my  prisoner  to-night ;  all  night, 
all  night  J  •  •  • 

•^  MELISANDE. 

P^ll^as!     P^U^as!  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

I  tie  them,  I  tie  them  to  the  willow  boughs. 
.  .  .  Thou  shalt  not  go  away  now ;  .  .  .  thou 
shalt  not  go  away  now.  .  .  .  Look,  look,  I  am 


io6        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

kissing  thy  hair.  „  .  .  I  suffer  no  more  in  the 
midst  of  thy  hair.  .  .  .  Hearest  thou  my  kisses 
along  thy  hair?  .  .  .  They  mount  along  thy 
hair.  .  .  .  Each  hair  must  bring  thee  some.  .  .  . 
Thou  seest,  thou  seest,  I  can  open  my  hands. 
.  .  .  My  hands  are  free,  and  thou  canst  not 
leave  me  now.  ... 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  oh  !  thou  hurt  est  me.  .  .  .  [Doves  come 
out  of  the  tower  and  fly  about  them  in  the 
m^>^/.]— What  is  that,  P^ll^as ?  —  What  is  it 
flying  about  me  ? 

P^LLlfeAS. 

It  is  the  doves  coming  out  of  the  tower.  .  .  . 
I  have  frightened  them ;  they  are  flying 
away.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

It  is  my  doves,  P^Ueas.  —  Let  us  go  away,  let 
me  go ;  they  will  not  come  back  again.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

Why  will  they  not  come  back  again? 

MELISANDE. 

They  will  be  lost  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  Let  me 
go  ;  let  me  Hft  my  head.  ...  I  hear  a  noise  of 
footstep?.  .  .  .  Let  me  go!  —  ItisGolaud!  .  .  . 
I  believe  it  is  Golaud  1  .  .  .  He  has  heard 
us.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        107 

PELLEAS. 

Wait !  Wait !  .  .  .  Thy  hair  is  about  the 
boughs.  ...  It  is  caught  there  in  the  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  Wait,  wait !  ...  It  is  dark.  .  .  . 

Enter  GoiA\jD,  by  the  watchman'' s  round. 

GOLAUD. 

What  do  you  here  ? 

PELLEAS. 

What  do  I  here  ?  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

You  are  children.  .  .  .  Melisande,  do  not 
lean  out  so  at  the  window ;  you  will  fall.  .  .  . 
Do  you  not  know  it  is  late  ?  —  It  is  nearly  mid- 
night. —  Do  not  play  so  in  the  darkness,  —  You 
are  children.  .  .  .  \_Laughing  nervously ,'\  What 
children  !  .  .  .  What  children !  .  .  . 

\Exit^  with  Pj&ll^as. 


Scene  III.  —  The  vaults  of  the  castle. 
Enter  Golaud  and  PiiLL^AS. 

GOLAUD. 

Take  care ;  this  way,  this  way.  —  You  have 
never  penetrated  into  these  vaults? 

P^LL^AS. 

Yes ;  once,  of  old ;  but  it  was  long  ago.  .  .  . 


io8        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 


GOLAUD. 

They  are  prodigious  great ;  it  is  a  succession 
of  enormous  crypts  that  end,  God  knows  where. 
The  whole  castle  is  builded  on  these  crypts. 
Do  you  smell  the  deathly  odor  that  reigns  here  ? 
—  That  is  what  I  wished  to  show  you.  In  my 
opinion,  it  comes  from  the  little  underground 
lake  I  am  going  to  have  you  see.  Take  care ; 
walk  before  me,  in  the  hght  of  my  lantern.  I 
will  warn  you  when  we  are  there.  \They  con- 
tinue to  walk  in  silence. '\  Hey!  hey!  P^ll^as  ! 
stop  1  stop  1  —  \He  seizes  him  by  the  armJ] 
For  God's  sake  I  ...  Do  you  not  see  ?  —  One 
step  more,  and  you  had  been  in  the  gulf!  .  .  . 

P^LLlfeAS. 

But  I  did  not  see  it  1  .  .  .  The  lantern  no 
longer  lighted  me.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

I  made  a  misstep,  .  .  .  but  if  I  had  not  held 
you  by  the  arm  .  .  .  Well,  this  is  the  stagnant 
water  that  I  spoke  of  to  you.  ...  Do  you  per- 
ceive the  smell  of  death  that  rises  ?  —  Let  us  go 
to  the  end  of  this  overhanging  rock,  and  do  you 
lean  over  a  little.     It  will  strike  you  in  the  face. 

PlfcLL^AS. 

I  smell  it  already ;  .  .  .  you  would  say  a  smell 
of  the  tomb. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         109 

GOLAtJD. 

Farther,  further.  ...  It  is  this  that  on  cer- 
tain days  has  poisoned  the  castle.  The  King 
will  not  believe  it  comes  from  here.  —  The 
crypt  should  be  walled  up  in  which  this  stand- 
ing water  is  found.  It  is  time,  besides,  to 
examine  these  vaults  a  little.  Have  you  noticed 
those  lizards  on  the  walls  and  pillars  of  the 
vaults  ?  — There  is  a  labor  hidden  here  you 
would  not  suspect ;  and  the  whole  castle  will  be 
swallowed  up  one  of  these  nights,  if  it  is  not 
looked  out  for.  But  what  will  you  have  ?  no- 
body likes  to  come  down  this  far.  .  .  .  There 
are  strange  lizards  in  many  of  the  walls.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  here  ...  do  you  perceive  the  smell  of 
death  that  rises? 

P^LL^AS. 

Yes ;  there  is  a  smell  of  death  rising  about 
us.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Lean  over;  have  no  fear.  ...  I  will  hold 
you  .  .  .  give  me  .  .  .  no,  no,  not  your  hand 
...  it  might  slip  .  .  .  your  arm,  your  arm  ! 
...  Do  you  see  the  gulf?  \_Moved,']  —  P^l- 
l^as?     P^ir^as?  ... 

P^LL^AS. 

Yes ;  I  think  I  see  the  bottom  of  the  gulf. 
...  Is  it  the  light  that  trembles  so?  .  .  .  You, 
...   [He  straightens   up,   turns,   and  looks  at 

GOLAUD.] 


no        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GOLAUD  {with  a  trembling  voice) . 

Yes ;   it  is  the  lantern.  .  .  .  See,  I  shook  it  to 
lighten  the  walls.  ... 

P^LL^AS. 

I  stifle  here ;  ...  let  us  go  out.  ... 


GOLAUD. 

Yes ;  let  us  go  out.  . 


\Exeunt  in  silence. 


Scene  IV.  —  A  terrace  at  the  exit  of  the  vaults. 
Enter  Golaud  and  Pi^ll^as. 

p6ll6as. 

Ah  !  I  breathe  at  last !  .  .  .  I  thought,  one 
moment,  I  was  going  to  be  ill  in  those  enormous 
crypts;  I  was  on  the  point  of  falling.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  damp  air  there,  heavy  as  a  leaden 
dew,  and  darkness  thick  as  a  poisoned  paste. 
.  .  .  And  now,  all  the  air  of  all  the  sea !  .  .  . 
There  is  a  fresh  wind,  see ;  fresh  as  a  leaf  that 
has  just  opened,  over  the  little  green  waves. 
.  .  .  Hold  !  the  flowers  have  just  been  watered 
at  the  foot  of  the  terrace,  and  the  smell  of  the 
verdure  and  the  wet  roses  comes  up  to  us.  .  .  . 
It  must  be  nearly  noon ;  they  are  already  in  the 
shadow  of  the  tower.  ...  It  is  noon ;  I  hear 
the  bells  ringing,  and  the  children  are  going 
down  to  the  beach  to  bathe.  ...  I  did  not 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         1 1 1 

know    that    we    had    stayed    so   long    in    the 
caverns.  ...  , 

GOLAUD. 

We  went  down  towards  eleven  o*clock.  .  •  . 

P^LLlfcAS. 

Earlier;  it  must  have  been  earlier;  I  heard 
it  strike  half-past  ten. 

GOLAUD. 

Half-past  ten  or  a  quarter  to  eleven.  .  •  . 

P^LL^AS. 

They  have  opened  all  the  windows  of  the 
castle.  It  will  be  unusually  hot  this  afternoon. 
.  .  .  Look,  there  is  mother  with  Melisande  at  a 
window  of  the  tower.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Yes;  they  have  taken  refuge  on  the  shady 
side.  —  Speaking  of  Mdisande,  I  heard  what 
passed  and  what  was  said  last  night.  I  am  quite 
aware  all  that  is  but  child's  play ;  but  it  need 
not  be  repeated.  Melisande  is  very  young  and 
very  impressionable ;  and  she  must  be  treated 
the  more  circumspectly  that  she  is  perhaps  with 
child  at  this  moment.  .  .  .  She  is  very  delicate, 
hardly  woman;  and  the  least  emotion  might 
bring  on  a  mishap.  It  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  noticed  there  might  be  something  between 
you.  .  .  .  You  are  older  than  she  ;  it  will  suffice 
to  have  told  you.  .  .  .  Avoid  her  as  much  as 


112        Pelleas  and  Mellsande. 

possible ;  without  affectation  moreover ;  without 
aifectation.  ...  —  What  is  it  I  see  yonder  on 
the  highway  toward  the  forest?  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

el 
Some  herds  they  Zq  leading  to  the  city.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

They  cry  like  lost  children ;  you  would  say 
they  smelt  the  butcher  already.  —  It  will  be 
time  for  dinner.  —  What  a  fine  day  !  What  a 
capital  day  for  the  harvest !  .  .  . 

\_£xeun^. 


Scene  V.  —  Before  the  castle. 
Enter  Golaud  and  little  Yniold. 

GOLAUD. 

Come,  we  are  going  to  sit  down  here,  Yniold ; 
sit  on  my  knee ;  we  shall  see  from  here  what 
passes  in  the  forest.  I  do  not  see  you  any  more 
at  all  now.  You  abandon  me  too;  you  are 
always  at  little  mother's.  .  .  .  Why,  we  are  sit- 
ting just  under  little  mother's  windows.  —  Per- 
haps she  is  saying  her  evening  prayer  at  this 
moment.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  Yniold,  she  is  often 
with  your  uncle  Pdll^as,  is  n't  she? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes ;  always,  little  father ;  when  you  are 

not  there,  Uttle  father.  .  .  . 


Pelieas  and  Melisande.        113 

GOLAUD. 

Ah  !  —  look ;  some  one  is  going  by  with  a 
lantern  in  the  garden.  —  But  I  have  been  told 
they  did  not  like  each  other.  ...  It  seems  they 
often  quarrel ;  .  .  .  no  ?  it  true  ? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes ;  it  is  true. 

GOLAUD. 

Yes  ?  —  Ah  !  ah  !  —  But  what  do  they  quarrel 
about  ? 

YNIOLD. 

About  the  door. 

GOLAUD. 

What?  about  the  door?  —  What  are  you 
talking  about?  —  No,  come,  explain  yourself; 
why  do  they  quarrel  about  the  door? 

YNIOLD. 

Because  it  won't  stay  open. 

GOLAUD. 

Who  wants  it  to  stay  open  ?  —  Come,  why  do 
they  quarrel? 

YNIOLD. 

I  don't  know,  little  father ;  about  the  light. 

GOLAUD. 

I  am  not  talking  tg  )i»u  about  the  light ;  we 
will  talk  of  that  by  and  by.     I  am  talking  to 
8 


1 14        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

-^Qik  about  the  door.  Answer  what  I  ask  you ; 
you  must  learn  to  talk;  it  is  time.  .  .  .  Do 
not  put  y^f  hand  in  your  mouth  so ;  .  .  . 
come.  ... 

YNIOLD. 

Little  father  !  little  father !  .  .  .  I  won't  do 
it  any  more.  .  .  .   \He  cries.'] 

GOLAUD. 

Come  ;  wJb^afe'ari6  you  crying  fear  now?    What 
has  happened? 

YNIOLD. 

Oh  !  oh  !   little  father,  you  hurt  me.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

1  hurt  yeu  ?  —  Where  did  I  hurt  you  ?     I  did 
not  mean  to.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Here,  here ;  on  my  little  arm.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

I   did    not   mean  to;    come,  don't  cry  any 
more,  and  I  will  give  y@u  something  to-morrow. 

YNIOLD. 

What,  little  father? 

GOLAUD. 

.-^^^jtA  quiverand  some  arrows ;  but  tell  me  what 
yetT  know^^about  the  door. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        115 

YNIOLD. 

Big  arrows? 

GOLAUD. 

Yes,  yes ;  very  big  arrows.  —  But  why  don't 
they  want  the  door  to  be  open?  —  Come, 
answer  me  sometime  !  —  no,  no  ;  do  not  open 
ye^rmouth  to  cry.  I  am  not  angry.  We  are 
going  to  have  a  quiet  talk,  like  Pelleas  and  little 
mother  when  they  are  together.  What  do  they 
talk  about  when  they  are  together? 

YNIOLD. 

P^ll^as  and  little  mother? 

GOLAUD. 

Yes;  what  do  they  talk  about? 

YNIOLD. 

About  me ;  always  about  me. 

GOLAUD. 

rrkJU 
And  what  do  they  say  about  y«ii? 

YNIOLD. 

They  say  I  am  going  to  be  very  big. 

GOLAUD. 

Oh,  plague  of  my  life  !  ...  I  am  here  like 
a  blind  man  searching  for  his  treasure  at  liie 
bottom  of  the  ocean  !  .  .  .  I  am  here  Ijke  a 
new-born  child  lost  in  the  forest,  and  vmi  !*'.  . 
Come,  come,  Yniold,  I  was  wandering ;  we  are 


ii6        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

going  to  talk  seriously.  Do  P^ll^as  and  little 
mother  never  speak  of  me  when  I  am  not 
there?  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes,  little  father;  they-are -always  speak- 
ing of  you. 

GOLAUD. 

Ah  !  .  .  .  And  what  do  they  say  of  me  ? 

YNIOLD. 

They  say  I  shall  grow  as  big  as  you  are. 

GOLAUD. 

You  are  always  by  them? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes,  always,  always,  little  father. 

GOLAUD. 

They  never  tell  you  to  go  play  somewhere 
else? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father ;  they  are  afraid  when  I  am 
not  there. 

GOLAUD.  . 

They  are  afraid?  .  .  .  What  makes  )4u 
think  they  are  afraid? 

YNIOLD. 

Little  mother  always  says,  ^'  Don't  go  away  ; 
don't  go  away  !  "  .  .  .  They  are  unhappy,  but 
they  laugh.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        117 

GOLAUD. 

But  that  does  not  prove  they  are  afraid. 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes,  little  father ;  she  is  afraid.  .  •  . 

GOLAUD. 

Why  do  you  say  she  is  afraid? 

YNIOLD. 

They  always  weep  in  the  dark. 

GOLAUD. 

Ah  !  ah  !  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

That  makes  one  weep  too. 

GOLAUD. 

Yes,  yes !  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

She  is  pale,  little  father. 

GOLAUD. 

Ah  !  ah  !  .  .  .  patience,  my  God,  patience  !  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

What,  little  father? 

GOLAUD. 

Nothing,  nothing,  my  child.  —  I  saw  a  wolf 
go  by  in  the  forest.  —  Then  they  get  on  well 
together?  —  I   am  glad   to   learn  they   are   on 


ii8        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

good  terms.  —  They  kiss  each  other  sometimes? 
—  No?.  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Kiss  each  other,  little  father?  —  No,  no, — 
ah  !  yes,  little  father,  yes,  yes ;  once  .  .  1  once 
when  it  rained.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

They  kissed? — But  how,  how  did  they  kiss? 

YNIOLD. 

So,  little  father,  so  !  .  .  .  \He  gives  him  a 
kiss  on  the  mouth,  laughing.^  Ah  1  ah  !  your 
beard,  little  father !  ...  It  pricks !  it  pricks  ! 
it  pricks  !  It  is  getting  all  gray,  little  father, 
and  your  hair,  too ;  all  gray,  all  gray,  all  gray. 
.  .  .  [  The  window  under  which  they  are  sitting 
is  lighted  up  at  this  moment,  and  the  light  falls 
upon  them,']  Ah  !  ah  !  little  mother  has  lit  her 
lamp.     It  is  hght,  little  father ;  it  is  light.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Yes ;  it  is  beginning  to  be  light.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Let  us  go  there  too,  Httle  father ;  let  us  go 
there  too.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

Where  do  you  want  to  go? 

YNIOLD. 

Where  it  is  light,  little  father. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         119 

GOLAUD. 

No,  no,  my  child ;  let  us  stay  in  the  dark  a 
little  longer.  .  .  .  One  cannot  tell,  one  cannot 
tell  yet.  .  .  .  Do  you  see  those  poor  people 
down  there  trying  to  kindle  a  little  fire  in  the 
forest?  —  It  has  rained.  And  over  there,  do 
you  see  the  old  gardener  trying  to  lift  that  tree 
the  wind  has  blown  down  across  the  road?  — 
He  cannot ;  the  tree  is  too  big ;  the  tree  is  too 
heavy,  and  it  will  lie  where  it  fell.  All  that 
cannot  be  helped.  ...  I  think  P^ll^as  is 
mad.  ... 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father,  he  is  not  mad ;  he  is  very 
good. 

GOLAUD. 

Do  you  want  to  see  little  mother? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  yes ;  I  want  to  see  her ! 

GOLAUD. 

Don't  make  any  noise ;  I  am  going  to  hoist 
you  up  to  the  window.  It  is  too  high  for  me, 
for  all  I  am  so  big.  .  .  .  \^He  lifts  the  child, '\ 
Do  not  make  the  least  noise ;  little  mother 
would  be  terribly  afraid.  .  .  .  DotjJ^'^see  her? 
—  Is  she  in  the  room  ? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes.  .  .  .     Oh,  how  light  it  is  ! 


120        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GOLAUD. 

She  is  alone  ? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes ;  .  .  .  no,  no  ;  Uncle  P^ll^as  is  there,  too. 

GOLAUD. 

He—  .  .  .  ! 

YNIOLD. 

Ah  !  ah  !  little  father  !  you  have  hurt  me  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

It  is  nothing ;  be  still ;  I  will  not  do  it  any 
more ;  look,  look,  Yniold  !  .  .  .  I  stumbled ; 
speak  lower.     What  are  they  doing?  — 

YNIOLD. 

They  are  not  doing  anything,  little  father; 
they  are  waiting  for  something. 

GOLAUD. 

Are  they  near  each  other? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father. 

GOLAUD. 

And  ...  and  the  bed?  are  they  near  the 
bed? 

YNIOLD. 

The  bed,  little  father?  —  I  can't  see  the  bed. 

GOLAUD. 

Lower,  lower ;  they  will  hear  you.  Are  they 
speaking  ? 


Felleas  and  Melisande.        ill 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father ;  they  do  not  speak. 

GOLAUD. 

But  what  are  they  doing?  —  They  must  be 
doing  something.  ... 

YNIOLD. 

They  are  looking  at  the  light. 

GOLAUD. 

Both? 

YNIOLD. 

Yes,  little  father. 

GOLAUD. 

They  do  not  say  anything? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father;    they   do  not  close  their 
eyes. 

GOLAUD. 

They  do  not  come  near  each  other? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father ;  they  do  not  stir. 

GOLAUD. 

They  are  sitting  down  ? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father;  they  are  standing  upright 
ai^^ainst  the  wall. 


122        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 


GOLAUD. 

They  make  no  gestures  ?  —  They  do  not  look 
at  each  other?  —  They  make  no  signs?  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father.  —  Oh  !  oh  !  little  father  ; 
they  never  close  their  eyes.  ...  I  am  terribly 
afraid.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Be  still.     They  do  not  stir  yet  ? 

YNIOLD. 

No,  little  father.  —  I  am  afraid,  little  father ; 
let  me  come  down  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Why,  what  are  you  afraid  of?  —  Look ! 
look  !  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

I  dare  not  look  any  more,  little  father !  .  .  . 
Let  me  come  down  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Look !  look !  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Oh  !  oh  !  I  am  going  to  cry,  little  father  !  — 
Let  me  come  down  !  let  me  come  down  !  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Come ;  we  will  go  see  what  has  happened. 

\Exeunt, 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Scene  I. — A  corridor  in  the  castk. 
Enter  P^lli^as  and  M^lisande,  meeting. 

P^LLlfcAS. 

Where  goest  thou?      I  must  speak  to  thee 
to-night.     Shall  I  see  thee? 


Yes. 


M^LISANDE. 


p]£ll6as. 


I  have  just  left  my  father's  room.  He  is 
getting  better.  The  physician  has  told  us  he  is 
saved.  .  .  .  And  yet  this  morning  I  had  a  pre- 
sentiment this  day  would  end  ill.  I  have  had 
a  rumor  of  misfortune  in  my  ears  for  some  tin  e. 
.  .  .  Then,  all  at  once  there  was  a  great  change  ; 
to-day  it  is  no  longer  anything  but  a  question 
of  time.  All  the  windows  in  his  room  have 
been  thrown  open.  He  speaks;  he  seems 
happy.  He  does  not  speak  yet  like  an  ordi- 
nary man,  but  already  his  ideas  no  lonp^er  all 
come  from  Jthe  other  world.  .  .  .  He  recog- 
nized me.  JTe  lo5k  my  hand  and  said  with 
that  strange  air  he  has  had  since  he  fell  sick : 
^as  it  thou,  P^lleas?  Why,  why,  I  had  not 
noticed  it  before,  but  thou  hast  the  grave  and 


124        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

friendly  look  of  those  who  will  not  live  long. 
...  You  must  travel;  you  must  travel.  .  .  .'* 
It  is  strange ;  I-  shall  ■  obey  him.  .  .  .  My 
mother  listened  to  him  and  wept  for  joy.  — 
Hast  thou  not  been  aware  of  it? —  The  whole 
house  seems  already  to  revive,  you  hear  breath- 
ing, you  hear  speaking,  you  hear  walking. 
.  .  .  Listen  ;  I  hear  some  one  speaking  behind 
that  door.  Quick,  quick !  answer  quickly ! 
where  shall  I  see  thee? 

MELISANDE. 

Where  wouldst  thou? 

P^LL^AS. 

In  the  park;  near  "Blind  Man's  Spring.'' 
—  Wilt  thou?  —  Wilf  thou  come? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes. 

PELLEAS. 

It  will  be  the  last  night ;  —  I  am  going  to 
travel,  as  my  father  said.  Thou  wilt  not  see  me 
more.  ... 

MELISANDE. 

Do  not  say  that,  Pelleas.  ...  I  shall  see 
thee  always ;  I  shall  look  upon  thee  always.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

Thou  wilt  look  in  vain.  ...  I  shall  be  so 
far  away  thou  couldst  no  longer  see  me.  .  .  . 
I  shall  try  to  go  very  far  away.  ...  I  am  full 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         125 

of  joy,  and  you  would  say  I  had  all  the  weight 
oriTeaven  and  earth  on  my  body  to-day.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

What  has  happened,  P^ll^as?  —  I  no  longer 
understand  what  you  say.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Go,  go;  let  us  separate.  I  hear  some  one 
speaking  behind  that  door.  ...  It  is  the 
strangers  who  came  to  the  castle  this  morning. 
.  .  .  They  are  going  out.  .  .  .  Let  us  go ;  it  is 
the  strangers.  .  .  .  \Exeunt  severally. 


Scene  II.  —  An  apartment  in  the  castle, 
Arkel  and  Melisande  discovered, 

ARKEL. 

Now  that  P^ll^as's  father  is  saved,  and  sick- 
ness, the  old  handmaid  of  Death,  has  left  the 
castle,  a  little  joy  and  a  little  sunlight  will  at  last 
come  into  the  house  again.  ...  It  was  time  ! 
—  For,  since  thy  coming,  we  have  only  lived 
here  whispering  about  a  closed  room.  .  .  .  And 
truly  I  have  pitied  thee,  Melisande.  .  .  .  Thou 
camest  here  all  joyous,  like  a  child  seek- 
ing a  gala-day,  and  at  the  moment  thou  en- 
teredst  in  the  vestibule  I  saw  thy  face  change, 
and  probably  thy  soul,  as  the  face  changes 
in  spite  of  us  when  we  enter  at  noon  into 
a  grotto  too  gloomy  and  too  cold.  .  .  .  And 


126        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

since,  —  since,  on  account  of  all  that,  I  have  often 
no  longer  understood  thee.  ...  I  observed 
thee,  thou  wert  there,  listless  perhaps,  but  with 
the  strange,  astray  look  of  one  awaiting  ever  a 
great  trouble,  in  the  sunlight,  in  a  beautiful 
garden.  ...  I  cannot  explain.  .  .  .  But  I  was 
sad  to  see  thee  so ;  for  thou  art  too  young  and 
too  beautiful  to  live  already  day  and  night  under 
the  breath  of  death.  .  .  .  But  now  all  that  will 
change.  At  my  age,  —  and  there  perhaps  is 
the  surest  fruit  of  my  life,  —  at  my  age  I  have 
gained  I  know  not  what  faith  in  the  fidelity  of 
events,  and  I  have  always  seen  that  every  young 
and  beautiful  being  creates  about  itself  young, 
beautiful,  and  happy  events.  .  .  .  And  it  is  thou 
who  wilt  now  open  the  door  for  the  new  era  I 
have  glimpses  of.  .  .  .  Come  here ;  why  dost 
thou  stay  there  without  answering  and  without 
lifting  thine  eyes  ?  —  I  have  kissed  thee  but 
once  only  hitherto,  —  the  day  of  thy  coming ; 
and  yet  old  men  need  sometimes  to  touch  with 
their  lips  a  woman's  forehead  or  a  child's  cheek, 
to  believe  still  in  the  freshness  of  life  and  avert 
awhile  the  menaces.  .  .  .,  Art  thou  afraid  of  my 
old  lips?  How  I  have  pitied  thee  these 
months !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Grandfather,  I  have  not  been  unhappy.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Perhaps  you  were  of  those  who  are  unhappy 
without  knowing  it,  .  .  .  and  they  are  the  most 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         127 

unhappy.  .  .  .  Let  me  look  at  thee,  so,  quite 
near,  a  moment ;  ...  we  have  such  need  of 
beauty  beside  Death.  .  .  . 

Enter  Golaud. 

GOLAUD, 

P^ll^as  leaves  to-night. 

ARKEL. 

Thou  hast  blood  on  thy  forehead.  —  What 
hast  thou  done? 

GOLAUD. 

Nothing,  nothing.  ...  I  have  passed  through 
a  hedge  of  thorns. 

MEUSANDE. 

Bend  down  your  head  a  little,  my  lord.  .  .  . 
I  will  wipe  your  forehead.   .  .  . 

GOLAUD  {repulsing  her) , 

I  will  not  that  you  touch  me,  do  you  under- 
stand ?  Go,  go  !  —  I  am  not  speaking  to  you. 
—  Where  is  my  sword? — I  came  to  seek  my 
sword.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Here ;  on  the  praying-stool. 

GOLAUD. 

Bring  it.  \To  Arkel.]  — They  have  just 
found  another  peasant  dead  of  hunger,  along  by 
the  sea.     You  would  say  they  all  meant  to  die 


128        Pelleas  and  Melisande, 

Wider  our  eyes. —  [To  M^xisande.]  Well,  my 
sword? — Why  do  you  tremble  so?  —  I  am  not 
going  to  kill  you.  I  would  simply  examine  the 
blade.  I  do  not  employ  the  sword  for  these 
uses.  Why  do  you  examine  me  like  a  beggar? 
—  I  do  not  come  to  ask  alms  of  you.  You 
hope  to  see  something  in  my  eyes  without  my 
seeing  anything  in  yours  ?  —  Do  you  think  I 
may  know  something  ?  —  [71?  Arkel.]  —  Do 
you  see  those  great  eyes  ?  —  It  is  as  if  they 
were  proud  of  their  richness.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

I  see  there  only  a  great  innocence.  ... 

GOLAUD. 

A  great  innocence  !  .  .  .  They  are  greater 
than  innocence  !  .  .  .  They  are  purer  than  the 
eyes  of  a  lamb.  .  .  .  They  would  give  God  les- 
sons in  innocence  !  A  great  innocence  !  Listen  : 
I  am  so  near  them  I  feel  the  freshness  of  their 
lashes  when  they  wink ;  and  yet  I  am  less  far 
away  from  the  great  secrets  of  the  other  world 
than  from  the  smallest  secret  of  those  eyes  ! 
...  A  great  innocence  !  .  .  .  More  than  inno- 
cence !  You  would  say  the  angels  of  heaven 
celebrated  there  an  eternal  baptism  !  .  .  .  I 
know  those  eyes  !  I  have  seen  them  at  their 
work  !  Close  them  !  close  them  !  or  I  shall 
close  them  for  a  long  while  !  .  .  .  —  Do  not  put 
your  right  hand  to  your  throat  so ;  I  am  saying 
a  very  simple  thing.  ...  1  have  no  under- 
thought.  ...  If  I  had  an  under-thought,  why 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         129 

should  I  not  say  it  ?  Ah  !  ah  !  —  do  not  at- 
tempt to  flee  !  —  Here  !  —  Give  me  that  hand  ! 
—  Ah  !  your  hands  are  too  hot.  ...  Go  away  ! 
Your  flesh  disgusts  me  !  .  .  .  Here  !  —  There 
is  no  more  question  of  fleeing  now  !  —  \_He 
seizes  her  by  the  hair.~\  —  You  shall  follow  me  on 
your  knees  !  —  On  your  knees  !  —  On  your  knees 
before  me  !  —  Ah  !  ah  !  your  long  hair  serves 
some  purpose  at  last !  .  .  .  Right,  .  .  .  left !  — 
Left,  .  .  .  right !  —  Absalom  !  Absalom.  —  For- 
ward !  back  !  To  the  ground  !  to  the  ground  ! 
.  .  .  You  see,  you  see ;  I  laugh  already  like  an 
old  man.  ... 

ARKEL  (^running  up) . 

Golaud!  .  .  . 

GOLAUD  {affecting  a  sudden  calni). 

You  will  do  as  you  may  please,  look  you.  — 
I  attach  no  importance  to  that.  —  I  am  too  old ; 
and,  besides,  I  am  not  a  spy.  I  shall  await 
chance  ;  and  then  ...  Oh  !  then  !  .  .  .  simply 
because  it  is  the  custom  ;  simply  because  it  is  the 
custom.  ...  \Exit, 

ARKEL. 

What  ails  him?  —  He  is  drunk? 

MELISANDE  {in  tears). 

No,  no ;  he  does  not  love  me  any  more.  .  .  . 
I  am  not  happy  !  .  .  .  I  am  not  happy !  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

If  I  were  God,  I  would  have  pity  on  men|s_ 
hearts.  ... 


( 


ijo        Pelleas  and  Melisande, 

Scene   III.  —  A   terrace  of  the   castle.      Little 
Yniold  discovered,  trying  to  lift  a  bowlder, 

LITTLE   YNIOLD. 

Oh,  this  stone  is  heavy !  ...  It  is  heavier 
than  I  am.  ...  It  is  heavier  than  everybody. 
...  It  is  heavier  than  everything  that  ever 
happened.  ...  I  can  see  my  golden  ball 
between  the  rock  and  this  naughty  stone,  and  I 
cannot  reach  it.  .  .  .  My  little  arm  is  not  long 
enough,  .  .  .  and  this  stone  won't  be  lifted. 
...  I  can't  lift  it,  .  .  .  and  nobody  could  lift 
it.  .  .  .  It  is  heavier  than  the  whole  house  ;  .  .  . 
you  would  think  it  had  roots  in  the  earth.  ... 
[  The  bleatings  of  a  flock  heard  far  away, 2  — 
Oh  !  oh  !  I  hear  the  sheep  crying.  .  .  .  [He 
goes  to  look,  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace^  Why  ! 
there  is  no  more  sun.  .  .  .  They  are  coming 
.  .  .  the  little  sheep  .  .  .  they  are  coming. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  lot  of  them  !  .  .  .  There  is  a 
lot  of  them  !  .  .  .  They  are  afraid  of  the  dark. 
.  .  .  They  crowd  together !  they  crowd  to- 
gether !  .  .  .  They  can  hardly  walk  any  more. 
.  .  .  They  are  crying  !  they  are  crying  !  and 
they  go  quick  !  .  .  .  They  go  quick  1  .  .  . 
They  are  already  at  the  great  crossroads.  Ah  ! 
ah  !  They  don't  know  where  they  ought  to  go 
any  more.  .  .  .~nrh"ey  donVcry-aiiyiTiare.  .  .  . 
They"  wait.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  want  to  go  to 
the  right.  .  .  .  They  all  want  to  go  to  the  right. 
.  .  .  They  cannot !  .  .  .  The  shepherd  is  throw- 
ing earth  at  them.  ...  Ah  !  ah  !  They  are 
going  to  pass  by  here.  .  .  .  They  obey  !    They 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        131 

obey !  They  are  going  to  pass  under  the  ter- 
race. .  .  .  They  are  going  to  pass  under  the 
rocks.  ...  I  am  going  to  see  them  near  by. 
...  Oh  !  oh  !  what  a  lot  of  them  !  .  .  .  What 
a  lot  of  them  !  .  .  .  The  whole  road  is  full  of 
them.  .  .  .  They  all  keep  still  now.  .  .  Shep- 
herd !  shepherd !  why  don't  they  speak  any 
more? 

THE   SHEPHERD    {who  is  OUt  of  Sight)  , 

Because  it  is  no  longer  the  road  to  the 
stable.  .  .  . 

YNIOLD. 

Where  are  they  going?  —  Shepherd!  shep- 
herd !  —  where  are  they  going  ?  —  He  does  n't 
hear  me  any  more.  They  are  too  far  away 
already.  .  .  .  They  go  quick.  .  .  .  They  are 
not  making  a  noise  any  more.  ...  It  is  no 
longer  the  road  to  the  stable.  .  .  .  Where  are 
they  going  to  sleep  to-night  ?  —  Oh  !  oh  !  —  It 
is  too  dark.  ...  I  am  going  to  tell  some- 
thing to  somebody.  .  .  .  [Exit, 


Scene  IV. — A  fountain  in  the  park. 
Enter  Pelleas. 

P^LLjfcAS. 

It  is  the  last  evening  .  .  .  the  last  evening. 
It   must  all  end.     J  >>hflyfi  pjayfid    like,  a  child 
aiit   a  thing    I    didnpt«^»@ss.  ...  I  have 


132        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

played  a- dream  about  the  snares  of  fate.  .  .  . 
Who  has  awakened  me  all  at  once  ?  I  shall  flee, 
crying  out  for  joy  and  woe  like  a  blind  man 
fleeing  from  his  burning  house.  ...  I  am  going 
to  tell  her  I  shall  flee.^.  .  .  My  father  is  out 
of  danger ;  and  I  have  no  more  reason  to  lie  to 
myself.  ...  It  is  late ;  she  does  not  come. 
...  I  should  do  better  to  go  away  without 
seeing  her  again.  ...  I  must  look  well  at  her 
this  time.  .  .  .  There  are  some  things  that  I 
no  longer  recall.  ...  It  seems  at  times  as  if 
I  had  not  seen  her  for  a  hundred  years.  ... 
And  I  have  not  yet  looked  upon  her  look.  .  .  . 
There  remains  nought  to  me  if  I  go  away  thus. 
And  all  those  memories  ...  it  is  as  if  I  were 
to  take  away  a  little  water  in  a  muslin  bag.  .  .  . 
I  must  see  her  one  last  time,  to  the  bottom  of 
her  heart.  .  .  .  4*aaiji^LJ:ell  her  all  that  I  have, 
never  told  her. 

Enter  Melisande, 

MELISANDE. 

P^U^as ! 

P&LL^AS. 

Melisande  !  —  Is  it  thou,  Melisande  ? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes. 

/  P^LLlfcAS. 

Come  hither ;  do  not  stay  at  the  edge  of  the 
moonlight.  —  Come  hi^eri^'^We  have  so  many 
things  to  teU  each  other.  .  .  .  Come  l^ither  in 
the  shadow  of  the  linden.^'v^  *'^*'^ 


Pelleas  and  Mellsande.        133 

M^LISANDE. 

Let  me  stay  in  the  light.  .  .  . 

P^LLi^AS. 

We  might  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the 
tower.  Come  4k^er  ;  here,  we  have  nothing  to 
fear.  —  Take  care ;  we  might  be  seen.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  wish  to  be  seen.   .  .  . 

PELLl^AS. 

Why,  what  doth  ail  thee?  —  Thou  wert  able 
to  come  out  without  being  seen? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes ;  your  brother  slept.  .  .  . 

PlfeLLEAS. 

It  is  late.  —  In  an  hour  they  will  close  the 
gates.  We  must  be  careful.  Why  art  thou 
come  so  late? 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Your  brother  had  a  bad  dream.  And  then 
my  gown  was  caught  on  the  nails  of  the  gate. 
See,  it  is  torn.    I  lost  all  this  time,  and  ran.  ,  .  . 

Pl^LL^AS. 

My  poor  M^lisande  !  .  .  .  I  should  almost 
be  afraid  to  touch  thee.  .  .  .  Thou  art  still  out 
of  breath,  like  a  hunted  bird.   ...  It  is  for  me. 


134        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

for  me,  thou  doest  all  that?  ...  I  hear  thy 
heart  beat  as  if  it  were  mine.  .  .  .  Come  hither 
.  .  .  nearer,  nearer  me.  .  .  . 

Ml^LISANDE. 

Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

Pl&LLlfeAS. 

I  do  not  laugh;  —  or  else  I  laugh  for  joy, 
unwittingly.  ...  It  were  a  weeping  matter, 
rather.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

We  have  come  here  before.  ...  I  recol- 
lect. .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  Long  months  ago.  —  I 
knew  not  then.  .  .  .  Knowest  thou  why  I  asked 
thee  to  come  here  to-night? 

MELISANDE. 

No. 

PlfcLLl^AS. 

It  is  perhaps  the  last  time  I  shall  see  thee. 
...  I  must  go  away  forever.  .  .  , 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Why  sayest  thou  always  thou  wilt  go 
away?  .  .  . 

p:^ll6as. 

I  must  tell  thee  what  thou  knowest  already  ?  — 
Thou  knowest  not  what  I  am  going  to  tell  thee? 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         135 

M^LISANDE. 

Why,  no ;  why,  no  ;  I  know  nothing  —  ... 

PELLIEAS. 

Thou  knowest  not  why  I  must  go  afar.  .  .  . 
Thou  knowest  not  it  is  because  .  .  .  \He 
kisses  her  abruptly, '\     I  love  thee.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE  {in  a  low  voice) . 

I  love  thee  too.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Oh  !  oh  !  What  saidst  thou,  M^Hsande?  .  .  . 
I  hardly  heard  it ! . .  .  .  Thou  sayest  that  in  a 
voice  coming  from  the  end  of  the  world  !  .  .  . 
I  hardly  heard  thee.  .  .  .  Thou  lovest  me  ?  — 
Thou  lovest  me  too?  .  .  .  Since  when  lovest 
thou  me?  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Since  always.  .  .  .  Since  I  saw  thee.  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

Oh,  how  thou  sayest  that !  .  .  .  Thy  voice 
seems  to  have  blown  across  the  sea  in  spring  ! 
...  I  have  never  heard  it  until  now ;  .  .  .  one 
would  say  it  had  rained  on  my  heart !  .  .  . 
Thou  sayest  that  so  frankly  1  ...  Like  an 
angel  questioned  !  .  .  .  I  cannot  beHeve  it, 
Melisande  !  .  .  .  Why  shouldst  thou  love  me  ? 
—  Nay,  why  dost  thou  love  me  ?  —  Is  what  thou 
sayest    true  ?  — Thou    dost    not    mock    me  ?  — 


136        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

Thou    dost    not    lie    a   little,    to     make    me 
smile?  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No;  I  never  lie;  I  lie  but  to  thy 
brother.  ... 

PELLEAS. 

Oh,  how  thou  say  est  that !  .  .  .  Thy  voice  ! 
thy  voice  !  ...  It  is  cooler  and  more  frank 
tharf';the  water  is  !  ...  It  is  like  pure  water  on 
my  lips !  ...  It  is  like  pure  water  on  my 
hands.  .  .  .  Give  me,  give  me  thy  hands  !  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  small  thy  hands  are  !  ...  I  did  not- 
know  thou  wert  so  beautiful !  .  .  .  I  have  never 
seen  anything  so  beautiful  before  thee.  ...  I 
was  full  of  unrest;  I  sought  throughout  the 
house.  ...  I  sought  throughout  the  country. 
.  .  .  And  I  found  not  beauty.  .  .  .  And  now  I 
have  found  thee  !  .  .  .  I  have  found  thee  !  .  .  . 
I  do  not  think  there  could  be  on  the  earth  a 
fairer  woman!  .  .  .  Where  art  thou? — I  no 
longer  hear  thee  breathe.  .  .  . 

Ml^LISANDE. 

Because  I  look  on  thee.  .  .  . 

PlfcLL^AS. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  gravely  on  me? —  We 
are  already  in  the  shadow.  —  It  is  too  dark 
under  this  tree.  Come  into  the  light.  We 
cannot  see  how  happy  we  are.  Come,  come ; 
so  little  time  remains  to  us.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         137 

M^LISANDE. 

No,  no  j  let  us  stay  here.  ...  I  am  nearer 
thee  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 

PELL]&AS. 

Where  are  thine  eyes  ?  —  Thou  art  not  going 
to  fly  me?  —  Thou  dost  not  think  of  me  just 
now. 

MJ&LISANDE. 

Oh,  yes ;  oh,  yes ;  I  only  think  of  thee.  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

Thou  wert  looking  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

I  saw  thee  elsewhere.  .  .  • 

P^LL^AS. 

Thy  soul  is  far  away.  .  .  .  What  ails  thee, 
then?  —  Meseems  thou  art  not  happy.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Yes,  yes ;  I  am  happy,  but  I  am  sad.  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

One  is  sad  often  when  one  loves.  .  .  • 

MELISANDE. 

I  weep  always  when  I  think  of  thee.  .  .  . 


ijS        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

P^LLEAS. 

I  too.  ...  I  too,  Melisande.  ...  I  am 
quite  near  thee ;  I  weep  for  joy,  and  yet  .  .  . 
\^He  kisses  her  again,']  —  Thou  art  strange  when 
I  kiss  thee  so.  .  .  .  Thou  art  so  beautiful  that 
one  would  think  thou  wert  about  to  die.  .  •  . 

Mi:USANDE. 

Thou  too.  ... 

PELLEAS. 

There,  there.  .  .  .  We  do  not  what  v/e 
will.  ...  I  did  not  love  thee  the  first  time  I  saw 
thee.  ... 

MELISANDE. 

Nor  I.  •  .  .  nor  I.  ...  I  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

PlfeLL^AS. 

I  could  not  admit  thine  eyes.  ...  I  would 
have  gone  away  at  once  .  .  .  and  then   .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

And  I,  —  I  would  not  have  come.  ...  I  do 
not  yet  know  why,  —  I  was  afraid  to  come.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

There  are  so  many  things  one  never  knows. 
We  are  ever  waiting ;  and  then.  .  .  .  What  is 
that  noise?  —  They  are  closing  the  gates  !  .  .  . 

M]e:LISANDE. 

Yes,  they  have  closed  the  gates.  .  .  ^ 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        139 

PlfeLLl&AS. 

We  cannot  go  back  now?  —  Hearest  thou  the 
bolts  ?  —  Listen  !  listen  !  .  .  .  the  great  chains  ! 
.  .  .  the  great  chains  1  ...  It  is  too  late ;  it  is 
too  late  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

All  the  better!  all  the  better!  all  the 
better  1  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

Thou  — .  .  .  ?  Behold,  behold  !  ...  It  is 
no  longer  we  who  will  it  so  !  .  .  .  All's  lost, 
all  h  saved  !  all  is  saved  to-night !  —  Come, 
come.  .  .  .  My  heart  beats  hke  a  madman,  — 
up  to  my  very  throat.  .  .  .  [^T/iey  efnbrace?^ 
Listen  !  listen  !  my  heart  is  almost  strangling 
me.  .  .  .  Come  !  come  !  .  .  .  Ah.  how  beautiful 
it  is  in  the  shadows  !  .  .  . 


MELISANDE. 

There  is  some  one  behind  us  !  .  .  • 

PiiLLEAS. 

I  see  no  one.  .  .  • 

MELISANDE. 

I  heard  a  noise.  ... 

P^LL^AS. 

I  hear  only  thy  heart  in  the  dark.  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

I  heard  the  crackling  of  dead  leaves. 


140        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

PELL^AS. 

Because  the  wind  is  silent  all  at  once.  .  .  . 
It  fell  as  we  were  kissing.  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

How  long  our  shadows  are  to-night !  .  .  . 

P^LL^AS. 

They  embrace  to  the  very  end  of  the  garden. 
Oh,  how  they  kiss  far  away  from  us !  .  .  . 
Look  1  look  !  .  .  . 

M]fcLiSANDE  {in  a  stifled  voice). 
A-a-h  !  —  He  is  behind  a  tree  ! 


PELLEAS. 

Who? 

MELISANDE. 

Golaud ! 

PfeLL^AS. 

Golaud  !  - 

—  where  ?  —  I  see  nothing.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

There  .  . 

.  at  the  end  of  our  shadows.  .  .  . 

P^LLlfcAS. 

Yes,  yes; 
abruptly.  .  . 

I  saw  him.  .  .  .  Let  us  not  turn 

• 

MELISANDE. 

He  has  his  sword.  .  .  . 

Pelleas  and  Melisande.         141 

P^LlilAS. 

I  have  not  mine.  ... 

MELISANDE. 

He  saw  us  kiss.  .  .  . 

PELLEAS. 

He  does  not  know  we  have  seen  him.  .  .  . 
Do  not  stir ;  do  not  turn  your  head.  .  .  .  He 
would  rush  headlong  on  us.  .  .  .  He  will  re- 
main there  while  he  thinks  we  do  not  know. 
He  watches  us.  .  .  .  He  is  still  motionless.  .  .  . 
Go,  go  at  once  this  way.  ...  I  will  wait  for 
him.  ...  I  will  stop  him.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no,  no  !  .  .  . 

p6ll6as. 

Go  !  go  !  he  has  seen  all !  ...  He  will  kill 
us  !  .  .  . 

MlfcLISANDE. 

All  the  better!  all  the  better!  all  the 
better  1  .  .  . 

p6ll6as. 


He  comes !    he    comes !  .  .  .  Thy   moi^n  ! 
.  .  Thy  mouth  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Yes  !  .  o  .  yes  1  yes  !  .  .  • 

\_They  kiss  desperately.  ^ 


142        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

PELLEAS. 

Oh  !  oh  !     All  the  stars  are  falling  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Upon  me  too  !  upon  me  too  !  .  .  . 

PliLLEAS. 

Again  !     Again !  .  .  .  Give  !  give  !  •  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

All!  all!  all!  .  .  . 

[Golaud  rushes  upon  them,  sword  in  hand, 
and  strikes  Pelleas,  who  falls  at  the  brink  of 
the  fountain.     Melisande  flees  terrified.] 

MELISANDE  {fleeing). 

Oh  !  oh  !  I  have  no  courage  !  .  .  .  I  have 
no  courage  !  .  .  . 

[Golaud  pursues  her  through  the  wood  in 
silence. 


ACT   FIFTH. 

Scene  I.  —  A  lower  hall  in  the  castle.  The 
women  servants  discovered^  gathered  together^ 
while  without  children  are  playing  before  one 
of  the  ventilators  of  the  hall. 

AN  OLD  SERVANT. 

You  will  see,  you  will  see,  my  daughters ;  it 
will  be  to-night.  —  Some  one  will  come  to  tell 
us  by  and  by.  .  .  . 

ANOTHER  SERVANT. 

They  will  not  come  to  tell  us  .  .  .  They  don^t 
know  what  they  are  doing  any  longer.  .  .  . 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

Let  us  wait  here.  .  .  . 

FOURTH  SERVANT. 

We  shall  know  well  enough  when  we  must  go 
up.  .  .  . 

FIFTH  SERVANT. 

When  the  time  is  come,  we  shall  go  up  of 
ourselves.  .  .  . 


144        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

SIXTH  SERVANT. 

There  is  no  longer  a  sound  heard  in  the 
house.  .  .  . 

SEVENTH  SERVANT. 

We  ought  to  make  the  children  keep  still, 
who  are  playing  before  the  ventilator. 

EIGHTH  SERVANT. 

They  will  be  still  of  themselves  by  and  by. 

NINTH  SERVANT. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come.  .  .  . 
Enter  an  old  Servant, 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

No  one  can  go  in  the  room  any  longer.  I 
have  listened  more  than  an  hour.  .  .  .  You 
could  hear  the  flies  walk  on  the  doors.  ...  I 
heard  nothing.  ... 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Has  she  been  left  alone  in  the  room  ? 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

No,  no ;  I  think  the  room  is  full  of  people. 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

They  will  come,  they  will  come,  by  and 
by 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        145 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Lord  !  Lord  !  It  is  not  happiness  that  has 
come  into  the  house.  .  .  .  One  may  not  speak, 
but  if  I  could  say  what  I  know  .  .  . 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

It  was  you  who  found  them  before  the  gate  ? 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Why,  yes  !  why,  yes  !  it  was  I  who  found  them. 
The  porter  says  it  was  he  who  saw  them  first; 
but  it  was  I  who  waked  them.  He  was  sleeping 
on  his  face  and  would  not  get  up.  —  And  now 
he  comes  saying,  "  It  was  I  who  saw  them 
first."  Is  that  just?  —  See,  I  burned  myself 
lighting  a  lamp  to  go  down  cellar.  —  Now  what 
was  I  going  to  do  down  cellar  ?  —  I  can^t  re- 
member any  more  what  I  was  going  to  do  down 
cellar.  —  At  any  rate  I  got  up  very  early ;  it  was 
not  yet  very  light ;  I  said  to  myself,  I  will  go 
across  the  courtyard,  and  then  I  will  open  the 
gate.  Good ;  I  go  down  the  stairs  on  tiptoe, 
and  I  open  the  gate  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary 
gate.  ...  My  God !  My  God  !  What  do  I 
see  ?     Divine  a  little  what  I  see  !  .  .  . 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

They  were  before  the  gate  ? 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

They  were    both  stretched    out   before    the 
gate  1  .  .  .  Exactly  like  poor  folk  that  are  too 


146        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

hungry.  .  .  .  They  were  huddled  together  like 
little  children  who  are  afraid.  .  .  .  The  little 
princess  was  nearly  dead,  and  the  great  Golaud 
had  still  his  sword  in  his  side.  .  .  .  There  was 
blood  on  the  sill.  .  .  . 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

We  ought  to  make  the  children  keep  still.  .  .  . 
They  are  screaming  with  all  their  might  before 
the  ventilator.  .  .  . 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

You  can't  hear  yourself  speak.  .  .  . 

FOURTH  SERVANT. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  done  :  I  have  tried 
already;  they  won't  keep  still.  .  .  . 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

It  seems  he  is  nearly  cured? 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Who? 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

The  great  Golaud. 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes ;  they  have  taken  him  to  his  wife's 
room.  I  met  them  just  now,  in  the  corridor. 
They  were  holding  him  up  as  if  he  were  drunk. 
He  cannot  yet  walk  alone. 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        147 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

He  could  not  kill  himself;  he  is  too  big. 
But  she  is  hardly  wounded,  and  it  is  she  who 
is  going  to  die.  .  .  .  Can  you  understand 
that? 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

You  have  seen  the  wound? 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

As  I  see  you,  my  daughter.  —  I  saw  every- 
thing, you  understand.  ...  I  saw  it  before  all 
the  others.  ...  A  tiny  little  wound  under  her 
little  left  breast,  —  a  little  wound  that  would  n't 
kill  a  pigeon.     Is  it  natural  ? 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes ;  there  is  something  underneath.  .  .  . 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

Yes ;  but  she  was  delivered  of  her  babe  three 
days  ago.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Exactly !  .  .  .  She  was  delivered  on  her 
death-bed  ;  is  that  a  little  sign  ?  —  And  what  a 
child  !  Have  you  seen  it?  —  A  wee  little  girl 
a  beggar  would  not  bring  into  the  world.  .  .  . 
A  Httle  wax  figure  that  came  much  too  soon ;  .  .  . 
a  little  wax  figure  that  must  live  in  lambs'  wool. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes  ;  it  is  not  happiness  that  has  come 
into  the  house.  .  .  . 


148        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes ;  it  is  the  hand  of  God  that  has  been 
stirring.  .  .  . 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes;  all  that  did  not  happen  without 
reason.  .,  .  . 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

It  is  as  good  lord  Pdlleas  .  .  .  where  is  he? 
—  No  one  knows.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes  ;  everybody  knows.  .  .  .  But  nobody 
dare  speak  of  it.  .  .  .  One  does  not  speak  of 
this  ;  .  .  .  one  does  not  speak  of  that ;  .  .  .  one 
speaks  no  more  of  anything  ;  .  .  .  one  no  longer 
speaks  truth.  .  .  .  But  /  know  he  .was  found 
at  the  bottom  of  Blind  Man's  Spring  ^  .  .  .  but 
no  one,  no  one  coura  see  him.  .  .  .  Well,  well, 
we  shall  only  know  all  that  at  the  last  day.  .  .  . 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

I  dare  not  sleep  here  any  longer.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes ;  once  ill-fortune  is  in  the  house,  one 
keeps  silence  in  vain.  .  .  . 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

Yes ;  it  finds  you  all  the  same.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         149 

THE  OLD  SERVANT. 

Yes,   yes;    but    we    do   not    go   where   we 
would.  .  .  . 

.  FOURTH  SERVANT. 

Yes,  yes ;  we  do  not  do  what  we  would.  .  .  • 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

They  are  afraid  of  us  now.  .  .  . 

SECOND  SERVj^NT. 

They  all  keep  silence.  .  .  . 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

They  cast  down  their  eyes  in  the  corridors. 

FOURTH  SERVANT. 

They  do  not  speak  any  more  except  in  a  low 
voice. 

FIFTH  SERVANT. 

You  would  think   they  had  all  done  it  to- 
gether. 

SIXTH  SERVANT. 

One  does  n't  know  what  they  have  done.  .  .  . 

SEVENTH  SERVANT. 

What  is  to  be  done  when  the  masters  are 
afraid?  ...  ^A  silence, 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

I  no  longer  hear  the  children  screaming. 


150        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

SECOND   SERVANT. 

They  are  sitting  down  before  the  ventilator. 

THIRD   SERVANT. 

They  are  huddled  against  each  other. 

THE    OLD    SERVANT. 

I  no  longer  hear  anything  in  the  house.  .  .  . 

FIRST   SERVANT. 

You    no    longer    even    hear    the    children 
breathe.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   SERVANT. 

Come,  come ;  it  is  time  to  go  up.  .  .  . 

[^Exeunt,  in  silence. 


Scene  II.  —  An  apartment  in  the  castle. 
Arkel,  Golaud,  and  the  Physician  dis-^^red 
in  one  corner  of  the  room.  Melisande  is 
stretched  upon  her  bed, 

THE   PHYSICLVN. 

It  cannot  be  of  that  little  wound  she  is  dying  ; 
a  bird  would  not  have  died  of  it.  .  .  .  It  is  not 
you,  then,  who  have  killed  her,  good  my  lord  ; 
do  not  be  so  disconsolate.  .  .  .  She  could  not 
have  lived.  .  .  .  She  was  born  without  reason 
...  to  die ;  and  she  dies  without  reason.  .  .  . 
And  then,  it  is  not  sure  we  shall  not  save 
her.  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Mellsande.        151 

ARKEL. 

No,  no ;  it  seems  to  me  we  keep  too  silent, 
in  spite  of  ourselves,  in  her  room.  ...  It  is 
not  a  good  sign.  .  .  .  Look  how  she  sleeps  .  .  . 
slowly,  slowly ;  .  .  .  it  is  as  if  her  soul  was  cold 
forever.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

I  have  killed  her  without  cause  !  I  have  killed 
her  without  cause  !  ...  Is  it  not  enough  to 
make-the  stones  weep  ?  .  .  .  They  had  kissed 
like  little  children.  .  .  .  They  had  simply 
kissed.  .  .  .  They  were  brother  and  sister.  .  .  . 
And  I,  and  I  at  once  !  .  .  .  I  did  it  in  spite  of 
myself,   loak-^you.  ...  I    did    it   in   spite    of 

.jpa^mvii*    •    •    • 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

Stop ;  I  think  she  is  waking.  .  .  . 

MjfeLISANDE. 

Open  the  window ;  .  .  .  open  the  window.  .  .  . 

ARKEL 

Shall  I  open  this  one,  M^lisande  ? 

M^LISANDE. 

No,  no;  the  great  window  .  .  .  the  great 
window.  ...  It  is  to  see  ..  . 

ARKEL. 

Is  not  the  sea  air  too  cold  to-night? 


152        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

Do  it ;  do  it.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Thanks.  ...  Is  it  sunset? 

ARKEL. 

Yes ;  it  is  sunset  on  the  sea ;  it  is  late.  — 
How  are  you,  MdHsande  ? 

MlfcLISANDE. 

Well,  well.  —  Why  do  you  ask  that  ?  I  have 
never  been  better.  —  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  I 
know  something.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

What  sayest  thou?  —  I  do 'not  understand 
thee.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Neither  do  I  understand  all  I  say,  you  see. 
...  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know  what  I  know.  ...  I  no  longer 
say  what  I  would.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Why,  yes  !  why,  yes  !  .  .  .  I  am  quite  happy 
to  hear  thee  speak  so ;  thou  hast  raved  a  little 
these  last  days,  and  one  no  longer  understood 
thee.  .  .  .  But  now  all  that  is  far  away.  ... 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         153 

MELISANDE. 

I  do  not  know.  ...  —  Are  you  all  alone  in 
the  room,  grandfather? 

ARKEL. 

No;  there  is  the  physician,  besides,  who 
cured  thee.  .  .  . 

MJiLISANDE. 

Ah  !  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

And  then  there  is  still  some  one  else.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Who  is  it? 

ARKEL. 

It  is  .  .  .  thou  must  not  be  frightened.  .  .  . 
He  does  not  wish  thee  the  least  harm,  be  sure, 
...  If  thou  'rt  afraid,  he  will  go  away.  .  .  , 
He  is  very  unhappy.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Who  is  it? 

ARKEL. 

It     is     thy  .  .  .  thy     husband.  ...  It     is 

Golaud.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Golaud  is  here  ?  Why  does  he  not  come  by 
me? 

GOLAUD  {dragging  himself  toward  the  ded) , 
M^Hsande  .  .  .  M^Hsande.  .  .  . 


154        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

M^LISANDE. 

Is  it  you,  Golaud?  I  should  hardly  recog- 
nize you  any  more.  ...  It  is  the  evening  sun- 
light in  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Why  look  you  on  the 
walls?  You  have  grown  thin  and  old.  ...  Is 
it  a  long  while  since  we  saw  each  other  ? 

GOLAUD  {to  Arkel  and  the  Physician). 

Will  you  withdraw  a  moment,  if  you  please, 
if  you  please  ?  .  .  .  I  will  leave  the  door  wide^ 
open.  .  .  .  One  moment  only.  ...  I  would^aj^ 
something  to  her  ;  else  I  could  not  die.  .  .  .  Will 
you  ?  —  Go  clear  to  the  end  of  the  corridor ;  you 
can  come  back  at  once,  at  once.  .  .  .  Do  not 
refuse  me  this.  ...  I  am  a  wretch.  .  .  .  \_Exit 
Arkel  Ofid  the  Physician.]  —  Melisande,  hast 
thou  pity  on  me,  as  I  have  pity  on  thee?  .  .  . 
Melisande?  .  .  .  Dost  thou  forgive  me, 
Melisande?  .  .  . 

melisande. 

Yes,  yes,  I  do  forgive  thee.  .  .  .  What  must 
I  forgive?  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

I  have  wrought  thee  so  much  ill,  Melisande. 
...  I  cannot  tell  thee  the  ill  I  have  wrought 
thee.  .  .  .  But  I  see  it,  I  see  it  so  clearly 
to-day  .  .  .  since  the  first  day.  .  .  .  And  all  I 
did  not  know  till  now  leaps  in  my  eyes  to-night. 
.  .  .  And  it  is  all  my  fault,  all  that  has  hap- 
pened, all  that  will  happen.  ...  If  I  could  tell 
it,  thou  wouldst  see  as  I  do  !  ...  I  see  all !  I 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         155 

see  all !  .  .  .  But  I  loved  thee  so  !  ...  I  loved 
thee  so  !  .  .  .  But  now  there  is  someone  dymg. 
...  It  is  I  who  am  dying.  .  .  .  And  I  would 
know  ...  I  would  ask  thee.  .  .  .  Thou  'It  bear 
me  no  ill-will  ...  I  would  .  .  .  The  truth 
must  be  told  to  a  dying  man.  ...  He  must 
know  the  truth,  or  else  he  could  not  sleep.  .  .  . 
Swearest  thou  to  tell  me  the  truth  ? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes. 

GOLAUD. 

Didst  thou  love  Pell(§as? 

MELISANDE. 

Why,  yes ;    I  loved  him.  —  Where  is  he  ? 

GOLAUD. 

Thou  dost  not  understand  me?  —  Thou  wilt 
not  understand  me?  —  It  seems  to  me  .  .  .  it 
seems  to  me  .  .  .  Well,  then,  here  :  I  ask  thee 
if  thou  lovedst  him  with  a  forbidden  love  ?  .  .  . 
Wert  thou  .  .  .  were  you  guilty?  Say,  say,  yes, 
yes,  yes  !  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

No,  no  ;  we  were  not  guilty.  —  Why  do  you 
ask  that? 

GOLAUD. 

M(§lisande  !  .  .  .  tell  me  the  truth,  for  the 
love  of  God  ! 

MELISANDE. 

Why  have  I  not  told  the  truth? 


156        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GOLAUD. 

Do  not  lie  so  any  more,  at  the  moment  of 
death  ! 

MELISANDE. 

Who  is  dying?  —  Is  it  I? 

GOLAUD. 

Thou,  thou  !  and  I,  I  too,  after  thee  !  .  .  . 
And  we  must  have  the  truth.  .  .  .  We  must 
have  the  truth  at  last,  dost  thou  understand? 
.  .  .  Tell  me  all !  Tell  me  all !  I  forgive  thee 
all!  .  .  . 

Mi:LISANDE. 

Why  am  I  going  to  die  ?  —  I  did  not  know 
it.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Thou  knowest  it  now  !  ...  It  is  time  !  It 
is  time  !  .  .  .  Quick  !  quick  !  .  .  .  The  truth  1 
the  truth  !  .  .   . 

MELISANDE. 

The  truth  .  .  .  the  truth  .  .  • 

GOLAUD. 

Where  art  thou?  —  Melisande!  —  Where  art 
thou  ?  — It  is  not  natural !  Melisande  !  Where 
art  thou?  —  Where  goest  thou?  [^Perceiving 
Arkel  and  the  Physician  at  the  door  of  the 
room,'] — Yes,  yes;  you  may  come  in.  ...  I 
know  nothing ;  it  is  useless.  ...  It  is  too  late  ; 
she  is  already  too  far  away  from  us.  ...  I 
shall  never  know!  ...  I  shall  die  here  like  a 
blind  man  !  .  .  . 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        157 

ARKEL. 

What  have  you  done  ?     You  will  kill  her.  .  .  • 

GOLAUD. 

I  have  already  killed  her.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Melisande.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Is  it  you,  grandfather? 

ARKEL. 

Yes,  my  daughter.  .  .  .  What  would  you 
have  me  do? 

MELISANDE. 

Is  it  true  that  the  winter  is  beginning?  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Why  dost  thou  ask? 

MELISANDE. 

Because  it  is  cold,  and  there  are  no  more 
leaves.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Thou  art  cold?  —  Wilt  thou  have  the  windows 
closed  ? 

MlfcLISANDE. 

No,  no,  .  .  .  not  till  the  sun  be  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  —  It  sinks  slowly ;  then  it  is  the 
winter  beginning? 


158        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

ARKEL. 

Yes.  —  Thou  dost  not  like  the  winter? 

MELISANDE. 

Oh  !  no.  I  am  afraid  of  the  cold.  —  I  am  so 
afraid  of  the  great  cold.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Dost  thou  feel  better? 

MELISANDE. 

Yes,  yes;  I  have  no  longer  all  those 
qualms.  ... 

ARKEL. 

Wouldst  thou  see  thy  child?  ^ 

.  MELISANDE. 

What  child? 

ARKEL. 

Thy  child.  —  Thou  art  a  mother.  .  .  .  Thou 
hast  brought  a  little  daughter  into  the 
world.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

Where  is  she  ? 

ARKEL. 

Here.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

It  is  strange.  ...  I  cannot  lift  my  arms  to 
take  her,  »  •  • 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.         159 

ARKEL. 

Because  you  are  still  very  weak.  ...  I  will 
hold  her  myself;    look.  .  .  . 

MELISANDE. 

She  does  not  laugh.  .  .  .  She  is  little.  .  .  . 

She  is  going  to  weep  too.  ...  I  pity  her.  .  .  . 

[The  room  has  been  invaded,  little  by  little,  by 

the  women  servants  of  the  castle,  who  range 

themselves  in  silenc^  along   the   walls  and 

wait.] 

GOLAUD  {risi7ig  abruptly). 

What  is  the  matter? — What  are  all  these 
women  coming  here  for?  .  .  . 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

It  is  the  servants.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Who  was  it  called  them? 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

It  was  not  I.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

Why  do  you  come  here  ?  —  No  one  has  asked 
for  you.  .  .  .  What  come  you  here  to  do  ?  — 
But  what  is  it,  then  ?  —  Answer  me  !  .  .  . 

\The  servants  make  no  answer, 

ARKEL. 

Do  not  speak  too  loud.  .  .  .  She  is  going  to 
sleep;    she  has  closed  her  eyes.  .  . ,. 


i6o        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

GOLAUD. 

It  is  not  .  .  .   ? 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

No,  no  j  see,  she  breathes.  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

Her  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  —  It  is  her  soul 
weeping  now.  .  .  .  Why  does  she  stretch  her 
arms  out  so  ?  —  What  would  she  ? 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

It  is  toward  the  child,  without  doubt.  .  .  . 
It  is  the  struggle  of  motherhood  against  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

At  this  moment  ?  —  At  this  moment  ?  —  You 
must  say.     Say  1     Say  !  .  .  . 

THE   PHYSICIAN. 

Perhaps. 

GOLAUD. 

At  once  ?  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  I  must  tell  her. 
-  .  .  —  Melisande  !  Melisande  !  .  .  .  Leave 
me  alone  1    leave  me  alone  with  her !  .  .  . 

ARKEL. 

No,  no;  do  not  come  near.  .  .  .  Trouble 
her  not.  .  .  .  Speak  no  more  to  her.  .  .  .  You 
know  not  what  the  soul  is.  .  .  . 

GOLAUD. 

It  is  not  my  fault !  ...  It  is  not  my  fault ! 


Pelleas  and  Melisande.        i6i 

ARKEL. 

Hush !  .  .  .  Hush !  .  .  .  We  must  speak  softly 
now.  —  She  must  not  be  disturbed.  .  .  ,  The 
human  soul  is  very  silent.  .  .  .  The  human  soul 
likes   to  depart  alone.  ...  It  suffers  so  timo- 
rously. .  .  .  But  the  sadness,  Golaud  .  .  .  the 
sadness  of  all  we  see  !  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  .  .  . 
[_Af  this  moment^  all  the  servants  fall  sud- 
denly on  their  knees  at  the  back  of  the 
chamber^ 

ARKEL  {turning). 
What  is  the  matter? 

THE  PHYSICIAN  {approachfk^  the  bed  and  feeling 
the  body). 

They  are  right.  .  .  . 

\A  long  silence. 

I  saw  nothing.  —  Are  you  sure?  .  .  . 

THE  PHYSICIAN. 

Yes,  yes. 

ARKEL. 

I  heard  nothing.  ...  So  quick,  so  quick ! 
...  All  at  once  !  .  .  .  She  goes  without  a 
word.    .   .   . 

GOLAUD  {sobbing). 

Oh!  oh!  oh! 

II 


1 62        Pelleas  and  Melisande. 

ARKEL. 

Do  not  stay  here,  Golaud.  .  .  .  She  must 
have  silence  now.  .  .  .  Come,  come.  ...  It 
is  terrible,  but  it  is  not  your  fault.  .  .  .  'T  was 
a  little  being,  so  quiet,  so  fearful,  and  so  silent. 
.  .  .  'T  was  a  poor  little  mysterious  being,  like 
everybody.  .  .  .  She  lies  there  as  if  she  were 
the  big  sister  of  her  child.  .  .  .  Come,  come. 
...  My  God  !  My  God !  .  .  .  I  shall  never 
understand  it  at  all.  .  .  .  Let  us  not  stay  here. 
—  Come  ;  the  child  must  not  stay  here  in  this 
room.  .  .  .  She  must  live  now  in  her  place. 
...  It  is  the  poor  little  one's  turn.  .  .  . 

-""■^ '  [TWey^^rvuf  in  silence. 


[Curtain.] 


Home. 

To  Mademoiselle  Sara  de  Swart. 


Persons. 

IN  THE  GARDEN. 


The  Old  Man. 
The  Stranger. 
Martha 
AND  Mary 
A  Peasant. 
The  Crowd, 


I  granddaughters  of  the  old  man. 


IN  THE   HOUSE. 


The  Father, 

The  Mother, 

The  Two  Daughters, 

The  Child, 


Silent  characters. 


Home. 


[An  old  garden,  planted  with  willows.  At  the 
back,  a  house  in  which  three  windows  on  the 
ground-floor  are  lighted.  A  family,  sitting 
up  under  the  lamp,  is  seen  rather  distinctly. 
The  father  is  seated  by  the  fireside.  The 
mother,  one  elbow  on  the  table,  is  staring 
into  space.  Two  young  girls,  clad  in  white, 
embroider,  dream,  and  smile  in  the  quiet  of 
the  room.  A  child  lies  asleep  with  his  head 
under  the  mother's  left  arm.  Whenever  one 
of  them  rises,  walks,  or  makes  a  gesture,  his 
movements  seem  to  be  grave,  slow,  rare, 
and,  as  it  were,  spiritualized  by  the  distance, 
the  light,  and  the  vague  veil  of  the  windows. 
The  old  man  and  the  stranger  enter  the 
garden  cautiously.] 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

We  are  in  the  part  of  the  garden  behind  the 
house.  They  never  come  here.  The  doors  are 
on  the  other  side.  —  They  are  closed,  and  the 
shutters  are  up.  But  there  are  no  shutters  on 
this  side,  and  I  saw  a  light.  .  .  .  Yes ;  they 
are  sitting  up  still  under  the  lamp.  It  is  fortu- 
nate they  have  not  heard  us  ;  the  mother  or  the 
young  girls  would  have  come  out,  perhaps,  and 
then  what  should  we  have  done  ?  .  .  . 


i68  H 


ome. 


THE  STRANGER, 

What  are  we  going  to  do  ? 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

I  should  like  to  see,  first,  if  they  are  all  in 
the  room.  Yes,  I  see  the  father  sitting  in  the 
chimney-corner.  He  waits,  with  his  hands  on 
his  knees ;  .  .  .  the  mother  is  resting  her  elbow 
on  the  table. 

THE  STRANGER. 

She  is  looking  at  us.  .  .  . 

I  THE  OLD  MAN. 

[No; 


i  \      IrN^Q  I  she  does  n't  know  where  she  is  looking  ; 

j '  her  eyes  do  not  wink.(  She  cannot  see  us  ;  we 
are  in  the  shade  of  great  trees.  But  do  not  go 
any  nearer.  .  .  .  The  two  sisters  of  the  dead 
girl  are  in  the  room  too.  They  are  embroider- 
ing slowly ;  and  the  little  child  is  asleep.  It  is 
nine  by  the  clock  in  the  corner.  .  .  .  They 
suspect  nothing,  and  they  do  not  speak. 

THE  STRANGER. 

If  one  could  draw  the  father's  attention,  and 
make  him  some  sign?  He  has  turned  his  head 
this  way.  Would  you  Hke  me  to  knock  at  one 
of  the  windows  ?  One  of  them  ought  to  be  told 
before  the  others.  ... 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

I  don't  know  which  one  to  choose.  .  .  .  We 
must  take  great  precautions.  .  .  .  The  father  is 


Home.  169 

old  and  ailing.  ...  So  is  the  mother ;  and  the 
sisters  are  too  young.  .  .  .  And  they  all  loved 
her  with  such  love  as  will  never  be  again.  .  .  . 
I  never  saw  a  happier  household.  .  .  .  No,  no, 
do  not  go  near  the  window;  that  would  be 
worse  than  anything  else.  ...  It  is  better  to 
announce  it  as  simply  as  possible,  —  as  if  it  were 
an  ordinary  event,  —  and  not  to  look  too  sad  ; 
for  otherwise  their  grief  will  wish  to  be  greater 
than  yours  and  will  know  of  nothing  more  that 
it  can  do.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  on  the  other  side  of 
the  garden.  We  will  knock  at  the  door  and  go 
in  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  will  go  in 
first :  they  will  not  be  surprised  to  see  me ;  I 
come  sometimes  in  the  evening,  to  bring  them 
flowers  or  fruit,  and  pass  a  few  hours  with  them. 

THE  STRANGER. 

Why  must  I  go  with  you  ?     Go  alone  ;  I  will 

wait  till  I   am   called.  .  .  .  They  have  never 

seen  me.  ...  I  am  only  a  passer-by ;  I  am  a 
stranger.  ... 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

It  is  better  not  to  be  alone.  A  sorrow  that 
one  does  not  bring  alone  is  not  so  unmixed  nor 
so  heavy.  ...  I  was  thinking  of  that  as  we 
were  coming  here.  ...  If  I  go  in  alone,  I 
shall  have  to  be  speaking  from  the  first  minute ; 
in  a  few  words  they  will  know  everything,  and  I 
shall  have  nothing  more  to  say;  and  I  am  /' 
afraid  of  the  silence  following  the  last  words  j  X, 
that  announce  a  woe.  ...  It  is  then  the  heart  L 


170  Home. 

is  rent.  ...  If  we  go  in  together,  I  shall 
tell  them,  for  example,  after  going  a  long 
way  about,  ^'  She  was  found  so.  .  .  .  She  was 
floating  in  the  river,  and  her  hands  were 
clasped."  ...  ^ 

THE  STRANGER. 

Her  hands  were  not  clasped ;  her  arms  were 
hanging  down  along  her  body. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

You  see,  one  speaks  in  spite  of  oneself.  .  .  . 
And  the  sorrow  is  lost  in  the  details ;  .  .  .  but 
otherwise,  if  I  go  in  alone,  at  the  first  words, 
knowing  them  as  I  do,  it  would  be  dreadful,  and 
God  knows  what  might  happen.  .  .  .  But  if  we 
speak  in  turn,  they  will  listen  to  us  and  not 
think  to  look  the  ill  news  in  the  face.  .  .  .  Do 
not  forget  the  mother  will  be  there,  and  that  her 
life  hangs  by  a  thread.  ...  It  is  good  that  the 
first  wave  break  on  some  unnecessary  words. 
.  .  .  There  should  be  a  little  talking  around 
the  unhappy,  and  they  should  have  people 
about  them.  .  .  .  The  most  indifferent  bear  unW 
wittingly  a  part,  of  the  grief.  ...  So,  without 
noise  or  effort,  it  divides,  like  air  or  light.  .  .  .    \ 

THE  STRANGER. 

Your    clothes    are  wet   through;    they   are 
dripping  on  the  flagstones. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

It  is  only  the  bottom  of  my  cloak  that  dipped 
in  the  water. — You  seem  to  be  cold.     Your 


Home.  171 

chest  is  covered  with  earth.  ...  I  did  not 
notice  it  on  the  road  on  account  of  the 
darkness.  .  .  . 

THE  STRANGER. 

I  went  into  the  water  up  to  my  waist. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

Was  it  long  after  you  found  her  when  I 
came? 

THE  STRANGER. 

A  few  minutes,  barely.  I  was  going  toward 
the  village ;  it  was  already  late,  and  the  bank 
was  getting  dark.  I  was  walking  with  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  river  because  it  was  lighter  than 
the  road,  when  I  saw  something  strange  a  step 
or  two  from  a  clump  of  reeds.  ...  I  drew 
near  and  made  out  her  h§,ir,  which  had  risen 
almost  in  a  circle  above  her  head,  and  whirled 
round,  so,  in  the  current.  i 

\_In  the  room,  the  two  young  girls  turn  their       ^ 
heads  toward  the  window^  \      n. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

Did  you  see  the  two  sisters'  hair  quiver  on 
their  shoulders? 

THE  STRANGER. 

They  turned  their  heads  this  way.  .  .  .  They 
simply  turned  their  heads.  Perhaps  I  spoke 
too  loud.  \The  two  young  girls  resume  their 
former  position^  But  they  are  already  looking 
no  longer.  ...  I  went  into  the  water  up  to  my 


172  Home. 

waist  and  I  was  able  to  take  her  by  the  hand 
and  pull  her  without  effort  to  the  shore.  .  .  . 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  her  sisters  are. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

She  was  perhaps  more  beautiful.  ...  I  do 
not  know  why  I  have  lost  all  courage.  .  .  . 

THE  STRANGER. 

What  courage  are  you  talking  of  ?  We  have 
done  all  man  could  do.  .  .  .  She  was  dead 
more  than  an  hour  ago.  .  .  . 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

She  was  alive  this  morning  !  .  .  .  I  met  her 
coming  out  of  church.  .  .  .  She  told  me  she 
was  going  away;  she  was  going  to  see  her 
grandmother  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
where  you  found  her.  ,  .  .  She  did  not  know 
when  I  should  see  her  again.  .  .  .  She  must 
have  been  on  the  point  of  asking  me  something ; 
then  she  dared  not  and  left  me  abruptly.  But 
I  think  of  it  now.  .  .  .  And  I  saw  nothing  ! 
...  She  smiled  as  they  smile  who  choose  to 
be  silent,  or  who  are  afraid  they  will  not  be 
understood.  .  .  .  She  seemed  hardly  to  hope. 
.  .  .  Her  eyes  were  not  clear  and  hardly  looked 
at  me.  .  .  . 

THE  STRANGER. 

Some  peasants  told  me  they  had  seen  her 
wandering  on  the  river-bank  until  nightfall.  .  .  . 
They  thought  she  was  looking  for  flowers.  .  .  . 
It  may  be  that  her  death  .  .  . 


Home.  173 


THE  OLD  MAN. 

We  cannot  tell.  .  .  .  What  is  there  we  can 
tell?  .  .  .  She  was  perhaps  of  those  who  do 
not  wish  to  speak,  and  every  one  of  us  bears  in 
himself  more  than  one  reason  for  no  longer 
living.  .  .  .  We  cannot  see  in  the  soul  as  we 
see  in  that  room.  They  are  all  like  that.  .  .  . 
They  only  say  trite  things  ;  and  no  one  suspects 
aught.  .  .  .  You  live  for  months  by  some  one 
who  is  no  longer  of  this  world  and  whose  soul 
can  bend  no  longer ;  you  answer  without  think- 
ing;  and  you  see  what  happens.  .  .  .  They 
look  Hke  motionless  dolls,  and,  oh,  the  events 
that  take  place  in  their  souls  !  .  .  .  They  do 
not  know  themselves  what  they  are.  .  .  .  She 
would  have  lived  as  the  rest  live.  .  .  .  She 
would  have  said  up  to  her  death :  "  Monsieur, 
Madame,  we  shall  have  rain  this  morning,"  or 
else,  "  We  are  going  to  breakfast ;  we  shall  be 
thirteen  at  table,"  or  else  :  *'  The  fruits  are  not 
yet  ripe."  1  Tfcey  speak  with  a  smile  of  the 
flowers  thatHCave  fallen,  and  weep  in  the  darjij 
...  An  angel  even  would  not  see  what  should 
be  seen ;  and  man  only  understands  when  it  is 
too  late.  .  .  .  Yesterday  evening  she  was  there, 
under  the  lamp  like  her  sisters,  and  you  would 
not  see  them  as  they  should  be  seen,  if  this  had 
not  occurred.  ...  I  seem  to  see  her  now  for 
the  first  time.  .  .  .  Something  must  be  added  to 
common  life  before  we  can  understand  it.  .  .  .  | 
They  are  beside  you  day  and  night,  and  you 
perceive  them  only  at  the  moment  when  they 


174  Home. 

depart  forever.  .  .  .  And  yet  the  strange  little 
soul  she  must  have  had ;  the  poor,  naive, 
exhaustless  little  soul  she  had,  my  son,  if  she 
said  what  she  must  have  said,  if  she  did  what 
she  must  have  done  !  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

Just  now  they  are  smiling  in  silence  in  the 
room.  ... 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

They  are  at  peace.  .  .  .  They  did  not  ex- 
pect her  to-night.  ... 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  smile  without  stirring ;  .  .  .  and  see,  the 
father  is  putting  his  finger  on  his  lips.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

He  is  calling  attention  to  the  child  asleep  on 
its  mother's  heart.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

She  dares  not  raise  her  eyes  lest  she  disturb 
its  sleep.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN, 

They   are  no   longer  working.  ...  A  great 
silence  reigns.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  have  let  fall  the  skein  of  white  silk.  .  .  . 


Home,  175 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

They  are  watching  the  child.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  do  not  know  that  others  are  watching 
them.  ,  .  . 

THE  OLD   MAN. 

We  are  watched  too.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  have  lifted  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

And  yet  they  can  see  nothing.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  seem  happy;  and  yet  nobody  knows 
what  may  be  — ... 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

They  think  themselves  in  safety.  .  .  .  They 
have  shut  the  doors;  and  the  windows  have 
iron  bars.  .  .  .  They  have  mended  the  walls  of 
the  old  house ;  they  have  put  bolts  upon  the 
oaken  doors.  .  .  .  They  have  foreseen  all  that 
could  be  foreseen.  .  .  . 

THE  STRANGER. 

We  must  end  by  telling  them.  .  .  .  Some 
one  might  come  and  let  them  know  abruptly. 
.  .  .  There   was   a   crowd  of  peasants  in  the 


1^6  Home. 

meadow  where  the  dead  girl  was  found.  .  .  . 
If  one  of  them  knocked  at  the  door  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Martha  and  Mary  are  beside  the  poor  dead 
child.  The  peasants  were  to  make  a  litter  of 
leaves ;  and  I  told  the  elder  to  come  warn  us 
in  all  haste,  the  moment  they  began  their 
march.  Let  us  wait  till  she  comes ;  she  will  go 
in  with  me.  .  .  .  We  should  not  have  looked 
on  them  so.  ...  I  thought  it  would  be  only  to 
knock  upon  the  door ;  to  go  in  simply,  find  a 
phrase  or  two,  and  tell.  .  .  .  But  I  have  seen 
them  live  too  long  under  their  lamp.  .  .  • 

Enter  Mary. 

MARY. 

They  are  coming,  grandfather. 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Is  it  you?  —  Where  are  they? 

MARY. 

They  are  at  the  foot  of  the  last  hills. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

They  will  come  in  silence? 

MARY. 

I  told  them  to  pray  in  a  low  voice.  Martha 
is  with  them.  .  .  . 


Home.  177 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

Are  they  many  ? 

MARY. 

The  whole  village  is  about  the  bearers. 
They  had  brought  lights.  I  told  them  to  put 
them  out.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Which  way  are  they  coming? 

MARY. 

They  are  coming  by  the  footpaths.  They 
are  walking  slowly.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

It  is  time.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

You  have  told  them,  grandfather? 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

You  see  plainly  we  have  told  them  nothing.  . . . 
They  are  waiting  still  under  the  lamp.  .  .  .  Look, 
my  child,  look !  You  will  see  something  of 
life.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

Oh,  how  at  peace  they  seem  !  .  .  .  You 
would  say  I  saw  them  in  a  dream.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

Take  care,  I  saw  both  sisters  give  a  start.  .  .  . 
12 


178  Home. 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

They  are  getting  up.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

I  think  they  are  coming  to  the  windows.  .  .  . 
[At  this  moment,  one  of  the  two  sisters  of  whom 
they  speak  draws  near  the  first  window,  the 
other  near  the  third,  and,  pressing  their 
hands  at  the  same  time  against  the  panes, 
look  a  long  while  into  the  darkness.] 

i  THE   OLD   MAN. 

No     one    comes    to    the    window    in    the 
middle.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

They  are  looking.  .  .  .  They  are  listening.  •  . . 

THE   OLD  MAN. 

The  elder  smiles  at  what  she  does  not  see. 

THE   STRANGER. 

And  the  other  has  eyes  full  of  fearfulness.  .  .  . 

l^.^^_^  THE  OLD  MAN.  ^ 

/    Take  care ;   we  do  not  know  how  far  the  soul 
/extends  about  men.  ...  . 

L "     [A  long  silence,     Mary   cowers  agaiij^sf^ 

the  old  man's  breast  and  kisses  him  J] 

MARY. 

Grandfather !  .  .  . 


Home.  179 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

Do  not  weep,  my  child.  .  .  .  We  shall  have 
our  turn.  ...  \  / 


[^A  silence, 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  are  looking  a  long  while.  .  .  . 

THE    OLD   MAN. 

They  might  look  a  hundred  thousand  years 
and  not  perceive  anything,  the  poor  little  sis- 
ters. .  .  .  The  night  is  too  dark.  .  .  .  They  are 
looking  this  way ;  and  it  is  from  that  way  the 
misfortune  is  coming.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

It  is  fortunate  they  look  this  way.  .  .  .  I  do 
not  know  what  that  is  coming  toward  us,  over 
by  the  meadows. 

MARY. 

I  think  it  is  the  crowd.  .  .  .  They  are  so  far 
away  you  can  hardly  make  them  out.  .  .  • 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  follow  the  undulations  of  the  path.  .  .  . 
Now  they  appear  again  on  a  hillside  in  the 
moonlight.  .  . 

MARY. 

Oh,  how  many  they  seem  !  .  .  .  They  had 
already  run  up  from  the  suburbs  of  the  city 
when  I  came.  .  .  .  They  are  going  a  long  way 
around.  .  .  . 


:/ 


i8o  Home. 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

They  will  come  in  spite  of  all ;  I  see  them 
too.  .  .  .  They  are  on  the  march  across  the 
meadow  lands.  . .  .  They  seem  so  small  you  hardly 
make  them  out  among  the  grasses.  .  .  .  They 
look  like  children  playing  in  the  moonlight ;  and 
if  the  girls  should  see  them,  they  would  not 
understand.  ...  In  vain  they  turn  their  backs  ; 
those  yonder  draw  near  with  every  step  they 
take,  and  the  sorrow  has  been  growing  these 
two  hours  already.  They  cannot  hinder  it  from 
growing ;  and  they  that  bear  it  there  no  longer 
can  arrest  it.  .  .  .  It  is  their  master  too,  and  they 
must  serve  it.  .  .  .  It  has  its  end  and  follows  its 
own  road.  ...  It  is  unwearying  and  has  but  one 
idea.  .  .  .  Needs  must  they  lend  their  strength. 
They  are  sad,  but  they  come.  .  .  .  They  have 
pity,  but  they  must  go  forward.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

The  elder  smiles  no  longer,  grandfather.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

They  leave  the  windows.  ... 

MARY. 

They  kiss  their  mother.  .  .  • 

THE   STRANGER. 

The  elder  has  caressed  the  curls  of  the  child 
without  waking  him.  .  .  .  • 


Home.  i8i 

MARY. 

Oh  !  the  father  wants  to  be  kissed  too.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

^     And  now  silence.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

They  come  back  beside  the  mother.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

And  the  father  follows  the  great  pendulum  of 
the  clock  with  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

%  MARY. 

You   would   say  they  were   praying  without 
knowing  what  they  did.  .  .  . 

THE    STRANGER.  -^ 

You  would  say  that  they  were  listening  to  their  1 
souls.  ...  \ 

[^A  silerKTK^ 

MARY. 


Grandfather,  don^t  tell  them  to-night !  .  .  . 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

You  see,  you  too  lose  courage.  ...  I  knew  well 
that  we  must  not  look.  I  am  nearly  eighty-three 
years  old,  and  this  is  the  first  time  the  sight  of  life 
has  struck  me.  I  do  not  know  why  everything 
they  do  seems  so  strange  and  grave  to  me.  .  .  . 
They  wait  for  night  quite  simply,  under  their 
lamp,  as  we  might  have  been  waiting  under  ours ; 


"^ 


182  Home. 

and  yet  I  seem  to  see  them  from  the  height  of 
another  world,  because  I  know  a  little  truth 
which  they  do  not  know  yet.  ...  Is  it  that,  my 
children?  Tell  me,  then,  why  you  are  pale, 
too  ?  Is  there  "  something  else,  perhaps,  that 
cannot  be  told  and  causes  us  to  weep  ?  I  did 
not  know  there  was  anything  so  sad  in  life,  nor 
that  it  frightened  those  who  looked  upon  it.  .  .  . 
And  nothing  can  have  occurred  that  I  should  be 
afraid  to  see  them  so  at  peace.  .  .  .  They  have 
too  much  confidence  in  this  world.  .  .  .  There 
they  are,  separated  from  the  enemy  by  a  poor 
window.  .  .  .  They  think  nothing  will  happen 
because  they  have  shut  the  door,  and  do  not 
know  that  something  is  always  happening  in  our 
souls,  and  that  the  world  does  not  end  at  the 
doors  of  our  houses.  .  .  .  They  are  so  sure  of 
their  little  hfe  and  do  not  suspect  how  many 
others  know  more  of  it  than  they ;  and  that  I, 
poor  old  man,  —  I  hold  here,  two  steps  from  their 
door,  all  their  little  happiness,  like  a  sick  bird, 
in  my  old  hands  I  do  hot  dare  to  open.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

Have  pity,  grandfather.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

We  have  pity  on  them,  my  child,  but  no  one 
has  pity  on  us.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

Tell  them  to-morrow,  grandfather ;  tell  them 
when  it  is  light.  .  .  .  They  will  not  be  so  sorrow- 
ful. ... 


Home.  183 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

Perhaps  you  are  right,  my  child.  ...  It  would 
be  better  to  leave  all  this  in  the  night.  And  the 
light  is  sweet  to  sorrow.  .  .  .  But  what  would  they 
say  to  us  to-morrow?  Misfortune  renders 
jealous ;  they  whom  it  strikes,  wish  to  be  told 
before  strangers  ;  they  do  not  like  to  have  it  left 
in  the  hands  of  those  they  do  not  know.  .  .  .  We 
should  look  as  if  we  had  stolen  something.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

There  is  no  more  time,  besides ;  I  hear  the 
murmur  of  prayers  already.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

There  they  are.  .  .  .  They  are  passing  behind 
the  hedges.  .  .  . 

Enter  Martha. 

MARTHA. 

Here  I  am.  I  have  brought  them  this  far.  I 
have  told  them  to  wait  on  the  road.  S^Cries  of 
children  heard,~\  Ah  !  the  children  are  crying 
again.  ...  I  forbade  their  coming.  .  .  .  But 
they  wanted  to  see  too,  and  the  mothers  would 
not  obey.  ...  I  will  go  tell  them.  ...  No ; 
they  are  silent.  —  Is  everything  ready  ?  —  I  have 
brought  the  little  ring  that  was  found  on  her. 
...  I  have  some  fruit,  too,  for  the  child.  .  .  . 
I  laid  her  out  myself  on  the  litter.  She  looks 
as  if  she  were  asleep.  ...  I  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble;  her  hair  would   not  obey.  ...  I 


184  Home. 

had  some  marguerites  plucked.  ...  It  is  sad, 
there  were  no  other  flowers.  .  .  .  What  are  you 
doing  here  ?  Why  are  you  not  by  them  ?  .  .  . 
\She  looks  at  the  windows^  They  do  not  weep  ? 
.  .  .  They  .  .  .  you  have  not  told  them? 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

I      Martha,  Martha,  there  is  too  much   life  in 
your  soul ;  you  cannot  understand.  .  .  . 

MARTHA. 

Why  should  I  not  understand  ?  .  .  .  \Afte7'  a 
silence  and  in  a  tone  of  very  grave  reproach^ 
You  cannot  have  done  that,  grandfather.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Martha,  you  do  not  know.  .  .  . 

MARTHA. 

/  will  tell  them. 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Stay  here,  my  child,  and  look  at  them  a 
moment. 

MARTHA. 

Oh,  how  unhappy  they  are  !  .  .  .  They  can 
wait  no  longer. 

THE    OLD   MAN. 

Why? 

MARTHA. 

I  do  not  know ;  ...  it  is  no  longer  possi- 
ble !..  . 


Home.  185 


THE   OLD   MAN. 

Come  here,  my  child.  ... 

MARTHA. 

How  patient  they  are  ! 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

Come  here,  my  child.  ... 

MARTHA. 

[^TurningJ]  Where  are  you,  grandfather?  I 
am  so  unhappy  I  cannot  see  you  any  more. 
...  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  myself  -any 
more.  .  .  . 

THE    OLD   MAN. 

Do  not  look  at  them  any  more ;  till  they 
know  all.  .  .  . 

MARTHA. 

I  will  go  in  with  you.  .  .  . 

THE   OLD   MAN. 

No,  Martha,  stay  here.  ...  Sit  beside  your 
sister,  on  this  old  stone  bench,  against  the  wall 
of  the  house,  and  do  not  look.  .  .  .  You  are 
too  young ;  you  never  could  forget.  .  .  .  You 
cannot  know  what  a  face  is  like  at  the  moment 
when  death  passes  before  its  eyes.  .  .  .  There 
will  be  cries,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  round. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  there  will  be  nothing.  .  .  .  Above 
all,  do  not  turn  if  you  hear  nothing.  .  .  .  One 
does  not  know  the  course  of  grief  beforehand 
...  A  fewhttle  deep-rooted  sobs,  and  that  is  all. 


1 86  Home. 

usually.  ...  I  do  not  know  myself  what  I  may 
do  when  I  shall  hear  them.  .  .  .  That  belongs 
no  longer  to  this  life.  .  .  .  Kiss  me,  my  child, 
before  I  go  away.  .  .  . 

[The  murmur  of  prayers  has  gradually  drawn 
nearer.  Part  of  the  crowd  invades  the 
garden.  Dull  steps  heard,  running,  and  low 
voices  speaking.] 

THE   STRANGER   (tO  the  CrOWd) . 

Stay  here ;  ...  do  not  go  near  the  windows. 
.  .  .  Where  is  she  ?  .  .  . 

A   PEASANT. 

Who? 

THE  STRANGER. 

The  rest  .  .  .  the  bearers?  .  .  . 

THE  PEASANT. 

They  are  coming  by  the  walk  that  leads  to 
the  door. 

[The  old  man  goes  away.  Martha  and  Mary 
are  seated  on  the  bench,  with  their  backs 
turned  to  the  windows.  Murmurs  in  the 
crowd.] 

THE   STRANGER.^ 

S  —  t !  .  .  .  Do  not  speak. 

\^The  elder  of  the  two  sisters  rises  and  goes 
to  bolt  the  door.  .  .  .] 

MARTHA. 

She  opens  it? 


Home.  187 


THE   STRANGER. 

On  the  contrary,  she  is  shutting  it. 

[A  silence, 

MARTHA. 

Grandfather  has  not  entered? 

THE   STRANGER. 

No.  .  •  .  She  returns  and  sits  down  by  her 
mother.  .  .  .  The  others  do  not  stir,  and  the 
child  sleeps  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

\A  silence. 

MARTHA. 

Sister,  give  me  your  hands.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

Martha !  .  .  . 

\They  embrace  and  give  each  other  a  kiss, 

THE   STRANGER. 

He  must  have  knocked.  .  .  .  They  have  all 
raised  their  heads  at  the  same  time ;  .  .  .  they 
look  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

MARTHA. 

Oh  !  oh !  my  poor  little  sister !  .  .  .  I  shall 

cry  too  !  .  .  . 

\She  stifles  her  sobs  on  her  sister's  shoulder, 

THE   STRANGER. 

He  must  be  knocking  again.  .  .  .  The  father 
looks  at  the  clock.     He  rises. 


K 


i88  Home. 

MARTHA. 

Sister,  sister,  I  want  to  go  in  too.  .  .  .  They 
cannot  be  alone  any  longer.  .  .  . 

MARY. 

Martha  !  Martha  1  .  .  . 

\_She  holds  her  back, 

THE   STRANGER. 

The  father  is  at  the  door.  .  .  .  He  draws  the 
bolts.  ...  He  opens  the  door  prudently.  .  .  . 

MARTHA. 

Oh !  .  .  .  you  do  not  see  the  .  .  . 

THE    STRANGER. 

What?  "" 

MARTHA. 

Those  who  bear.  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

He  hardly  opens  it.  ...  I  can  only  see  a 
corner  of  the  lawn ;  and  the  fountain.  .  .  .  He 
does  not  let  go  the  door ;  ...  he  steps  back. 
.  .  .  He  looks  as  if  he  were  saying :  ''  Ah,  it 's 
you  !  "  .  .  .  He  raises  his  arms.  .  .  .  He  shuts 
the  door  again  carefully.  .  .  .  Your  grandfather 
has  come  into  the  room.  .  .  . 

[The  crowd  has  drawn  nearer  the  windows. 
Martha  and  Mary  half  rise  at  first,  then  draw 
near  also,  clasping  each  other  tightly.  The 
old  man  is  seen  advancing  into  the  room. 
The  two  sisters  of  the  dead  girl  rise ;  the 


Home.  189 

mother  rises  as  well,  after  laying  the  child 
carefully  in  the  armchair  she  has  just  aban- 
doned; in  such  a  way  that  from  without 
the  little  one  may  be  seen  asleep,  with  his 
head  hanging  a  little  to  one  side,  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  mother  advances 
to  meet  the  old  man  and  extends  her  hand  to 
him,  but  draws  it  back  before  he  has  had 
time  to  take  it.  One  of  the  young  girls 
offers  to  take  off  the  visitor*s  cloak  and  the 
other  brings  forward  a  chair  for  him ;  but 
the  old  man  makes  a  slight  gesture  of  re- 
fusal. The  father  smiles  with  a  surprised 
look.  The  old  man  looks  toward  the 
windows. 

THE   STRANGER. 

He  dares  not  tell  them.  ...  He  has  looked 
at  us.  •  .  . 

[Rumors  in  the  crowd, 

THE   STRANGER. 

S  .  ..  t!  .  .  . 

[The  old  man,  seeing  their  faces  at  the  win- 
dows, has  quickly  turned  his  eyes  away.  As 
one  of  the  young  girls  continues  to  offer  him 
the  same  armchair,  he  ends  by  sitting  down 
and  passes  his  right  hand  across  his  forehead 
several  times.] 

THE    STRANGER. 

He  sits  down.  .  .  . 

[The  other  people  in  the  room  sit  down  also, 
while  the  father  talks  volubly.  At  last  the 
old  man  opens  his  mouth,  and  the  tone  of  his 
voice  seems  to  attract  attention.  But  the 
father  interrupts  him.  The  old  man  begins 
to  speak  again,  and  little  by  little  the  others 
become  motionless.  All  at  once,  the  mother 
starts  and  rises] 


190  Home. 


MARTHA. 

Oh  !  the  mother  is  going  to  understand  !  .  .  . 
[She  turns  away  and  hides  her  face  in  her 
hands.  New  murmurs  in  the  crowd.  They 
elbow  each  other.  Children  cry  to  be  lifted 
up,  so  that  they  may  see  too.  Most  of  the 
mothers  obey.] 

THE   STRANGER. 

S  .  .  .  t !  .  .  .  He  has  not  told  them  yet.  .  .  . 
[The  mother  is  seen  to  question  the  old  man 
in  anguish.  He  says  a  few  words  more; 
then  abruptly  all  the  rest  rise  too  and  seem 
to  question  him.  He  makes  a  slow  sign  of 
affirmation  with  his  head.] 

THE   STRANGER. 

He  has  told  them.  ...  He  has  told  them 
all  at  once  1  .  •  . 

VOICES   IN  THE   CROWD. 

He     has     told     them !  ...  He    has    told 
them  1  .  .  . 

THE   STRANGER. 

You  hear  nothing.  .  .  . 

[The  pld  man  rises  too,  and,  without  turning, 
points  with  his  finger  to  the  door  behind  him. 
The  mother,  the  father,  and  the  two  young 
girls  throw  themselves  on  this  door,  which 
the  father  cannot  at  once  succeed  in  open- 
ing. The  old  man  tries  to  prevent  the 
mother  from  going  out. 

VOICES   IN   THE   CROWD. 

They    are    going    out  1     They    are     going 
out !  .  .  . 

[Jostling  in  the  garden.  All  rush  to  the  other 
side  of  the  house  and  disappear,  with  the 


Home.  191 

exception  of  the  stranger,  who  remains  at 
the  windows.  In  the  room,  both  sides  of  the 
folding-door  at  last  open  ;  all  go  out  at  the 
same  time.  Beyond  can  be  seen  a  starry 
sky,  the  lawn  and  the  fountain  in  the  moon- 
light, while  in  the  middle  of  the  abandoned 
room  the  child  continues  to  sleep  peacefully 
in  the  armchair.  —  Silence.] 

THE    STRANGER. 

The  child  has  not  waked  !  .  .  • 

\He  goes  out  also. 


1 


[Curtain.] 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

To  A.  F.  Lugn^-Poe. 


13 


Persons. 

TiNTAGILES. 

Ygraine,  ^ 

BELLANGtRE,      \  '"'"''  "f  TintagiUs. 

Aglovale. 

Three  Servants  of  the  Queen. 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles, 

ACT   FIRST. 

At  the  top  of  a  hill,  overlooking  the  castle. 
Enter  Ygraine,  holding  Tintagiles  by  the  hand, 

YGRAINE. 

Thy  first  night  will  be  troubled,  Tintagiles. 
Already  the  sea  howls  about  us ;  and  the  trees 
are  moaning.  It  is  late.  The  moon  is  just 
setting  behind  the  poplars  that  stifle  the  palace. 
.  .  .  We  are  alone,  perhaps,  for  all  that  here 
we  have  to  live  on  guard.  There  seems  to  be 
a  watch  set  for  the  approach  of  the  slightest 
happiness.  I  said  to  myself  one  day,  in  the 
very  depths  of  my  soul,  —  and  God  himself  could 
hardly  hear  it,  —  I  said  to  myself  one  day  I 
should  be  happy.  .  .  .  There  needed  nothing 
further ;  in  a  little  while  our  old  father  died, 
and  both  our  brothers  vanished  without  a  single 
human  being  able  since  to  tell  us  where  they 
are.  Now  I  am  all  alone,  with  my  poor  sister 
and  thee,  my  little  Tintagiles ;  and  I  have  no 


198       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

faith  in  the  future.  .  .  .  Come  here ;  sit  on  my 
knee.  Kiss  me  first ;  and  put  thy  Httle  arms, 
there,  all  the  way  around  my  neck ;  .  .  .  per- 
haps they  will  not  be  able  to  undo  them.  .  .  . 
Rememberest  thou  the  time  when  it  was  I  that 
carried  thee  at  night  when  bedtime  came  :  and 
when  thou  fearedst  the  shadows  of  my  lamp  in 
the  long  windowless  corridors  ?  —  I  felt  my  soul 
tremble  upon  my  lips  when  I  saw  thee,  sud- 
denly, this  morning.  ...  I  thought  thee  so  far 
away,  and  so  secure.  .  .  .  Who  was  it  made 
thee  come  here? 

TINTAGILES. 

I  do  not  know,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE. 

Thou  dost  not  know  any  longer  what  was 
said? 

TINTAGILES. 

They  said  I  had  to  leave. 

YGRAINE. 

But  why  hadst  thou  to  leave  ? 

TINTAGILES. 

Because  it  was  the  Queen's  will. 

YGRAINE. 

They  did  not  say  why  it  was  her  will?  —  I  am 
sure  they  said  many  things.  .  .  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       199 

TINTAGILES. 

I  heard  nothing,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE. 

When   they  spoke  among  themselves,  what 
did  they  say? 

TINTAGILES. 

They  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE. 

All  the  time? 

TINTAGILES. 

All  the  time,  sister   Ygraine;    except  when 
they  looked  at  me. 

YGRAINE. 

They  did  not  speak  of  the  Queen  ? 

TINl'AGILES. 

They  said  she  was  never  seen,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE. 

And  those  who  were  with  thee,  on  the  bridge 
of  the  ship,  said  nothing  ? 

TINTAGILES. 

They  minded  nothing  but  the  wind  and  the 
sails,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE. 

Ah !  .  .  .  That  does   not   astonish  me,  my 
child.  .  .  . 


200       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

TINTAGILES. 

They  left  me  all  alone,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE. 

Listen,  Tintagiles,  I  will  tell  thee  what  I 
know.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

What  dOi'^t  thou  know,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE. 

Not  much,  my  child.  .  .  .  My  sister  and  I 
have  crept  along  here,  since  our  birth,  without 
daring  to  understand  a  whit  of  all  that  happens. 
.  .  .  For  a  long  while  indeed,  I  lived  like  a 
blind  woman  on  this  island ;  and  it  all  seemed 
natural  to  me.  ...  I  saw  no  other  events  than 
the  flying  of  a  bird,  the  trembling  of  a  leaf,  the 
opening  of  a  rose.  .  .  .  There  reigned  such  a 
silence  that  the  falling  of  a  ripe  fruit  in  the 
park  called  faces  to  the  windows.  .  .  .  And  no 
one  seemed  to  have  the  least  suspicion;  .  .  . 
but  one  night  I  learned  there  must  be  some- 
thing else.  ...  I  would  have  fled,  and  could 
not.  .  .  .  Hast  thou  understood  what  I  have 
said? 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes,  yes,  little  sister ;  I  understand  whatever 
you  will.  ... 

YGRAINE. 

Well,  then,  let  us  speak  no  more  of  things 
that  are  not  known.  .  .  .  Thou  seest  yonder, 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       201 

behind  the  dead  trees  that  poison  the  horizon, 
—  thou  seest  the  castle  yonder,  in  the  depth 
of  the  valley  ? 

TINTAGILES. 

That  which  is  so  black,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

YGRAINE. 

It  is  black  indeed.  ...  It  is  at  the  very 
depth  of  an  amphitheatre  of  shadows.  .  .  .  We 
have  to  live  there.  ...  It  might  have  been 
built  on  the  summit  of  the  great  mountains  that 
surround  it.  .  .  .  The  mountains  are  blue  all 
day.  .  .  .  We  should  have  breathed.  We 
should  have  seen  the  sea  and  the  meadows  on 
the  other  side  of  the  rocks.  .  .  .  But  they  pre- 
ferred to  put  it  in  the  depth  of  the  valley ;  and 
the  very  air  does  not  go  down  so  low.  ...  It 
is  falling  in  ruins,  and  nobody  bewares.  .  .  . 
The  walls  are  cracking ;  you  would  say  it  was 
dissolving  in  the  shadows.  .  .  .  There  is  only 
one  tower  unassailed  by  the  weather.  ...  It  is 
enormous ;  and  the  house  never  comes  out  of 
its  shadow.  .  .  . 

-    TINTAGILES. 

There  is  something  shining,  sister  Ygraine. 
.  .  .  See,  see,  the  gr^at  red  windows  1  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

They  are  those  of  the  tower,  Tintagiles  :  they 
are  the  only  ones  where  you  will  see  light ;  it 
is  there  the  throne  of  the  Queen  is  set. 


202       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

TINTAGILES. 

I  shall  not  see  the  Queen? 

YGRAINE. 

No  one  can  see  her.  ... 

TINTAGILES. 

Why  can't  one  see  her? 

YGRAINE. 

Come  nearer,  Tintagiles.  .  .  .  Not  a  bird 
nor  a  blade  of  grass  must  hear  us.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

There  is  no  grass,  little  sister.  .  .  .  [^  sik?2ce.'] 
—  What  does  the  Queen  do? 

YGRAINE. 

No  one  knows,  my  child.  She  does  not 
show  herself.  .  .  .  She  lives  there,  all  alone  in 
her  tower ;  and  they  that  serve  her  do  not  go 
out  by  day.  .  .  .  She  is  very  old ;  she  is  the 
mother  of  our  mother ;  and  she  would  reign 
alone.  .  .  .  She  is  jealous  and  suspicious,  and 
they  say  that  she  is  mad.  .  .  .  She  fears  lest 
some  one  rise  into  her  place  ;  and  it  was  doubt- 
less because  of  that  fear  that  she  had  thee 
brought  hither.  .  .  .  Her  orders  are  carried 
out  no  one  knows  how.  .  .  .  She  never  comes 
down;  and  all  the  doors  of  the  tower  are 
closed  night  and  day.  ...  I  never  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her ;  but  others  have  seen  her,  it 
seems,  in  the  past,  when  she  was  young.  .  .  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       2( 

TINTAGILES. 

Is  she  very  ugly,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

YGRAINE. 

They  say  she  is  not  beautiful,  and  that  she  is 
growing  huge.  .  .  .  But  they  that  have  seen 
her  dare  never  speak  of  it.  .  .  .  Who  knows, 
indeed,  if  they  have  seen  her?  .  .  .  She  has  a 
power  not  to  be  understood  ;  and  we  live  here 
with  a  great  unpitying  weight  upon  our  souls. 
.  .  .  Thou  must  not  be  frightened  beyond 
measure,  nor  have  bad  dreams ;  we  shall  watch 
over  thee,  my  little  Tintagiles,  and  no  evil  will 
be  able  to  reach  thee  ;  but  do  not  go  far  from 
me,  your  sister  Bellangere,  nor  our  old  master 
Aglovale.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Not  from  Aglovale  either,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

YGRAINE. 

Not  from  Aglovale  either.  .  .  .  He  loves 
us.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

He  is  so  old,  little  sister ! 

YGRAINE. 

He  is  old,  but  very  wise.  ...  He  is  the  only 
friend  we  have  left ;  and  he  knows  many  things. 
...  It  is  strange ;  she  has  made  thee  come 
hither  without  letting  any  one  know.  .  .  .  I  do 
not  know  what  there  is  in  my  heart.  ...  I  was 


204      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

sorry  and  glad  to  know  thou  wert  so  far  away, 
beyond  the  sea.  .  .  .  And  now  ...  I  was 
astonished.  ...  I  went  out  this  morning  to  see 
if  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  mountains  ;  and  it 
is  thou  I  see  upon  the  threshold.  ...  I  knew 
thee  at  once.  ... 

TINTAGILES. 

No,  no,  little  sister;  it  was  I  that  laughed 
first.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  could  not  laugh  at  once.  .  .  .  Thou  wilt 
understand.  ...  It  is  time,  Tintagiles,  and  the 
wind  is  growing  black  upon  the  sea.  .  .  .  Kiss 
me  harder,  again,  again,  before  thou  stand'st 
upright.  .  .  .  Thou  knowest  not  how  we  love. 
.  .  .  Give  me  thy  little  hand.  ...  I  shall 
guard  it  well ;  and  we  will  go  back  into  the 
sickening  castle. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  SECOND. 

An  apartment  in    the   castle,      Aglovale   and 
Ygraine  discovered. 

Enter  Bellang^re. 

BELLANG^RE. 

Where  is  Tintagiles  ? 

YGRAINE. 

Here ;  do  not  speak  too  loud.  He  sleeps  in 
the  other  room.  He  seems  a  little  pale,  a  little 
ailing  too.  He  was  tired  by  the  journey  and 
the  long  sea-voyage.  Or  else  the  atmosphere 
of  the  castle  has  startled  his  little  soul.  He 
cried  for  no  cause.  I  rocked  him  to  sleep  on 
my  knees ;  come,  see.  .  .  .  He  sleeps  in  our 
bed.  .  .  .  He  sleeps  very  gravely,  with  one 
hand  on  his  forehead,  like  a  little  sad  king.  .  .  . 

BELLANG^RE  {bursting  suddenly  into  tears) . 
My  sister  !  my  sister  !  ...  my  poor  sister  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

What  is  the  matter? 


2o6      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

BELLANG^RE. 

I  dare  not  say  what  I  know,  .  .  .  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  know  anything,  .  .  .  and  yet  I 
heard  that  which  one  could  not  hear.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

What  didst  thou  hear? 

BELLANG^RE. 

I  was  passing  near  the  corridors  of  the 
tower.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Ah!  /.  . 

BELLANGi:RE. 

A  door  there  was  ajar.  I  pushed  it  very 
softly.  ...  I  went  in.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

In  where? 

BELLANGfeRE. 

I  had  never  seen  the  place.  .  .  .  There  were 
other  corridors  lighted  with  lamps ;  then  low 
galleries  that  had  no  outlet.  ...  I  knew  it  was 
forbidden  to  go  on.  ...  I  was  afraid,  and  I 
was  going  to  return  upon  my  steps,  when  I 
heard  a  sound  of  voices  one  could  hardly 
hear.  .  .  • 

YGRAINE. 

It  must  have  been  the  handmaids  of  the 
Queen ;  they  dwell  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  .  .  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       207 

BELLANGERE. 

I  do  not  know  just  what  it  was.  .  .  .  There 
must  have  been  more  than  one  door  between 
us ;  and  the  voices  came  to  me  Hke  the  voice 
of  some  one  who  was  being  smothered.  ...  I 
drew  as  near  as  I  could.  ...  I  am  not  sure  of 
anything,  but  I  think  they  spoke  of  a  child  that 
came  to-day  and  of  a  crown  of  gold.  .  .  .  They 
seemed  to  be  laughing.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

They  laughed  ? 

BELLANGERE. 

Yes,  I  think  they  laughed  .  .  .  unless  they 
were  weeping,  or  unless  it  was  something  I  did 
not  understand  ;  for  it  was  hard  to  hear,  and  their 
voices  were  sweet.  .  .  .  They  seemed  to  echo 
in  a  crowd  under  the  arches.  .  .  .  They  spoke 
of  the  child  the  Queen  would  see.  .  .  .  They 
will  probably  come  up  this  evening.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

What?  .  .  .  This  evening?  .  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  I  think  so.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

They  spoke  no  one's  name  ? 
bellangEre. 

They  spoke  of  a  child,  of  a  very  little 
child.  .  .  . 


2o8       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

YGRAINE. 

There  is  no  other  child.  .  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

They  raised  their  voices  a  little  at  that 
moment,  because  one  of  them  had  said  the  day 
seemed  not  yet  come.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  know  what  that  means ;  it  is  not  the  first 
time  they  have  issued  from  the  tower.  ...  I 
knew  well  why  she  made  him  come  ;  .  .  .  but  I 
could  not  believe  she  would  hasten  so  !  .  .  . 
We  shall  see ;  ...  we  are  three,  and  we  have 
time.  .  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

What  wilt  thou  do? 

YGRAINE. 

I  do  not  know  yet  what  I  shall  do,  but  I 
will  astonish  her.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  how  you 
tremble?  ...  I  will  tell  you.  ,  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

What? 

YGRAINE. 

She  shall  not  take  him  without  trouble.  .  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

We  are  alone,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  • 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.      209 


YGRAINE. 

Ah !  it  is  true,  we  are  alone  !  .  .  .  There  is 
but  one  remedy,  the  one  with  which  we  have 
always  succeeded  !  .  .  .  Let  us  wait  upon  our 
knees  as  the  other  times.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  will 
have  pity  !  .  .  .  She  allows  herself  to  be  dis- 
armed by  tears.  .  ,  .  We  must  grant  her  all  she 
asks  us ;  haply  she  will  smile ;  and  she  is  wont 
to  spare  all  those  who  kneel.  .  .  .  She  has  been 
there  for  years  in  her  huge  tower,  devouring  our  j 
beloved,  and  none,  not  one,  has  dared  to  strike  i 
her  in  the  face.  .  .  .  She  is  there,  upon  our  / 
souls,  like  the  stone  of  a  tomb,  and  no  one  dare/ 
put  forth  his  arm.  ...  In  the  time  when  there 
were  men  here,  they  feared  too,  and  fell  upon 
their  faces.  .  .  .  To-day  it  is  the  woman's  turn  ; 
...  we  shall  see.  ...  It  is  time  to  rise  at  last. 
.  .  .  We  know  not  upon  what  her  power  rests, 
and  I  will  live  no  longer  in  the  shadow  of  her 
tower.  .  .  .  Go,  —  go,  both  of  you,  and  leave  me 
more  alone  still,  if  you  tremble  too.  ...  I 
shall  await  her.  .  .  . 

BELLANG^RE. 

Sister,  I  do  not  know  what  must  be  done,  but 
I  stay  with  thee.  .  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

I  too  stay,  my  daughter.  For  a  long  time 
my  soul  has  been  restless.  .  .  .  You  are  going  to 
try:  .  .  .  We  have  tried  more  than  once.  .  .  . 


2IO      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

YGRAINE. 

You  have  tried  .  .  .  you  too  ? 

AGLOVALE. 

They  have  all  tried.  .  .  .  But  at  the  last  moment 
they  have  lost  their  strength.  .  .  .  You  will  see, 
you  too.  .  .  .  Should  she  order  me  to  come  up 
to  her  this  very  night,  I  should  clasp  both  my 
hands  without  a  word  ;  and  my  tired  feet  would 
climb  the  stair,  without  delay  and  without  haste, 
well  as  I  know  no  one  comes  down  again  with 
open  eyes.  ...  I  have  no  more  courage  against 
her.  .  .  .  Our  hands  are  of  no  use  and  reach  no 
one.  .  .  .  They  are  not  the  hands  we  need,  and 
all  is  useless.  .  .  .  But  I  would  help  you,  be- 
cause you  hope.  .  .  .  Shut  the  doors,  my  child. 
Wake  Tintagiles ;  encircle  him  with  your  little 
naked  arms  and  take  him  on  your  knees.  .  .  . 
We  have  no  other  defence.  .  .  . 


ACT  THIRD. 

The  same,     Ygraine  and Kgijov ky:^  discovered. 

YGRAINE. 

I  have  been  to  all  the  doors.  There  are  three. 
We  will  guard  the  largest.  .  .  .  The  other  two  are 
thick  and  low.  Tliey  never  open.  Their  keys 
were  lost  long  ago,  and  the  iron  bars  are  bedded 
fast  in  the  walls.  Help  me  shut  this ;  it  is 
heavier  than  the  gate  of  a  city.  ...  It  is  strong, 
too,  and  the  thunder  itself  could  not  enter.  .  . 
Are  you  ready  for  everything? 

AGLOVALE  {seating  himself  on  the  threshold) . 

I  shall  sit  on  the  steps  of  the  threshold,  with 
the  sword  on  my  knees.  .  .  .  Methinks  it  is  not 
the  first  time  I  have  watched  and  waited  here, 
my  child ;  and  there  are  moments  when  we  do 
not  understand  all  we  remember.  ...  I  have 
done  these  things,  I  know  not  when ;  .  .  .  but 
I  never  dared  draw  my  sword.  .  .  .  To-day  it 
is  there,  before  me,  although  my  arms  have  no 
more  strength  ;  but  I  will  try.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is 
time  to  defend  ourselves,  although  we  do  not 
understand.  .   .  . 


212       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

Bellangere,  carrying  Tintagiles,  enters  from 
the  adjoining  room, 

BELlANGERE. 

He  was  awake.  ... 

YGRAINE. 

He  is  pale.  .  .  .  Why,  what  is  the  matter? 

BELLANGERE. 

I  do  not  know. .  . .  He  was  crying  silently.  .  . . 

YGRAINE. 

Tintagiles.  .  .  . 

BELLANGERE. 

He  looks  the  other  way.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

He  does  not  recognize  me.  .  .  .  Tintagiles, 
where  art  thou? — It  is  thy  sister  speaking  to 
thee.  .  .  .  What  lookest  thou  at  there  ?  —  Turn 
back  this  way.  .  .  .   Come,  we  will  play.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Thou  wouldst  not  play  ? 

TINTAGILES. 

I  can  no  longer  walk,  sister  Ygraine.  •  .  • 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       213 


YGRAINE. 

Thou  canst  no  longer  walk  ?  .  .  .  Come,  come, 
what  ails  thee  ?  —  Art  thou  in  pain  a  little  ?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes.  ... 

YGRAINE. 

Where  is  the  pain,  then  ?  —  Tell  me,  Tintagiles, 
and  I  will  cure  thee.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

I  can't  tell,  sister  Ygraine,  it  is  everywhere.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Come  here,  Tintagiles.  .  .  .  Thou  knowest 
my  arms  are  gentler,  and  one  is  cured  quickly 
there.  .  .  .  Give  him  to  me,  Bellangere.  .  .  .  He 
shall  sit  on  my  knees,  and  it  will  go  away.  .  .  . 
There,  thou  seest  how  it  is  !  .  .  .  Thy  great  sisters 
are  here.  .  .  .  They  are  about  thee  ;  ...  we  will 
defend  thee,  and  no  harm  can  come.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

It  is  there,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  .  Why  is  there 
no  light,  sister  Ygraine  ? 

YGRAINE. 

There  is,  my  child.  .  .  .  Thou  dost  not  see  the 
lamp  that  hangs  down  from  the  vault? 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes,  yes.  ...  It  is  not  big.  .  .  .  There  are 
no  others? 


214      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

YGRAINE. 

Why  should  there  be  others  ?  We  can  see  all 
we  need  see.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Ah!  .  •  . 

YGRAINE. 

Oh,  thine  eyes  are  deep !  .  ,  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Thine  too,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  had  not  noticed  it  this  morning.  ...  I  saw 
arise  .  .  .  one  never  knows  just  what  the  soul 
believes  it  sees.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

I  have  not  seen  the  soul,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 
Why  is  Aglovale  there  on  the  threshold  ? 

YGRAINE. 

He  is  resting  a  little.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  kiss 
thee  before  he  went  to  bed.  .  .  .  He  was  wait- 
ing for  thee  to  wake.  ... 

TINTAGILES. 

What  is  that  on  his  knees? 

YGRAINE. 

On  his  knees?  I  see  nothing  on  his  knees.  . .  • 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       2 1 5 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes,  yes,  there  is  something.  ,  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

Nothing  much,  my  child.  ...  I  was  looking 
at  my  old  sword  ;  and  I  hardly  recognized  it.  .  .  . 
It  has  served  me  many  years  ;  but  for  some  time 
I  have  lost  all  faith  in  it,  and  I  think  it  will  soon 
break.  .  .  .  There,  by  the  hilt,  there  is  a  little 
spot.  ...  I  have  observed  the  steel  was  growing 
paler,  and  I  asked  myself  ...  I  know  not  any 
longer  what  I  asked.  .  .  .  My  soul  is  very  heavy 
to-day.  .  .  .  How  can  it  be  helped  ?  .  .  .  We  have 
to  live  in  expectation  of  the  unexpected.  .  .  . 
And  then  we^ha^e  to  act  as  if  we  hoped.  .  .  . 
There  are  those  heavy  evenings  when  the  use- 
lessness  of  life  rises  in  the  throat ;  and  you 
would  like  to  close  your  eyes.  ...  It  is  late,  and 
I  am  tired.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

He  is  wounded,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  <> 

YGRAINE. 

Where? 

TINTAGILES. 

On  the  forehead  and  the  hands.  .  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

Those  are  very  old  wounds  that  do  not  hurt 
me  any  more,  my  child.  ...  It  must  be  the 
light  faUing  on  them  to-night.  .  .  .  Thou  hast 
never  noticed  them  till  now  ? 


21 6      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

TINTAGILES. 

He  looks  sad,  sister  Ygraine,  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

No,  no ;  he  is  not  sad,  but  very  weary.  .  .  • 

TINTAGILES. 

Thou  art  sad  too,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Why,   no;  why,  no;   you   see,  I   am   smil- 
ing. .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

And  my  other  sister,  too.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Why,  no ;   she  is  smiling,  too.  ... 

TINTAGILES. 

That  is  not  smiling.  ...  I  know.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Come  ;  kiss  me  and  think  of  something  else. 
.  .  .   [^Ske  kisses  him!\ 

TINTAGILES. 

What  else,  sister  Ygraine  ?  —  Why  dost  thou 
hurt  me  when  thou  dost  kiss  me  so? 

YGRAINE. 

I  hurt  thee  ? 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.      217 


TINTAGILES. 

Yes.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  hear  thy  heart 
beat,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Thou  hearest  it  beat? 

TINTAGILES. 

Oh  !  oh  !  it  beats,  it  beats,  as  if  it  would  .  .  • 

YGRAINE. 

What? 

TINTAGILES. 

I  don't  know,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Thou  must  not  be  alarmed  without  reason, 
nor  speak  in  riddles.  .  .  .  Stop  !  thine  eyes  are 
wet.  .  .  .  Why  art  thou  troubled?  I  hear  thy 
heart  beat,  too.  .  .  .  You  always  hear  it  when 
you  kiss  so.  .  .  .  It  is  then  it  speaks  and  says 
things  the  tongue  knows  not  of.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

I  did  not  hear  it  just  now.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Because  then  .  .  .  Oh !  but  thine  !  .  .  .  Why, 
what  ails  it  ?  .  .  .  It  is  bursting  !  .  .  . 


TINTAGILES   (^Crying) . 
Sister  Ygraine  !  sister  Ygraine  ! 


21 8       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

YGRAINE. 

What? 

TINTAGILES. 

I  heard  !  .  .  .  They  .  .  .  they  are  coming ! 

YGRAINE. 

They,  who?  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

The  door  !   the  door  !  They  were  there  !  .  .  . 
[He  falls  backward  on  Ygraine's  knees. 

YGRAINE. 

Why,  what 's  the  matter?  .  .  .  He  has  .  .  . 
he  has  fainted.  .  .  . 

BELLANG^RE. 

Take   care ;  .  .  .  take   care  !  .  .  .  He   will 
fall.- .  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

\_Rising  abruptly,  sword  in  handJ]     I   hear 
too ;  .  .  .  some  one  is  walking  in  the  corridor. 

YGRAINE. 

Oh !  .  .  . 

\_A  silence  —  they  listen, 

AGLOVALE. 

I  hear.  .  .  .  There  is  a  crowd  of  them.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

A  crowd!  .  .  .  What  crowd? 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles,       219 

AGLOVALE. 

I  do  not  know ;  .  .  .  you  hear  and  you  do  not 

hear.  .  .  .  They  do  not  walk  like  other  beings, 
but  they  come.  .  .  .  They  are  touching  the 
door.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

\_Clasping    Tintagiles    convulsively    in  her 
arms,~\     Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  ■ 

BELLANG^RE. 

[Kissing  him  at  the  same  time^     I  too  I  •  •  • 
I  too !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  .  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

They  are  shaking  the  door  .  .  .  listen  •  .  . 
soft !  .  .  .  They  are  whispering.  .  .  . 

\A  key  is  heard  grating  in  the  lock. 

YGRAINE. 

They  have  the  key  !  .  .  . 

AGLOVALE. 

Yes ;  .  .  .  yes.  ...  I  was  sure  of  it.  ,  .  . 

Wait.  .  .  . 

\He  posts  himself y  with  raised  sword,  on 
the  last  step, —  To  the  two  sisters  .•] 
Come !  .  .  .  come,  too  !  .  .  . 

[A  silence.  The  door  opens  a  little.  Trem- 
bling like  the  needle  of  a  compass,  Aglovale 
puts  his  sword  across  the  opening,  sticking 
the  point  of  it  between  the  beams  of  the 
door-case.  The  sword  breaks  with  a  crash 
under  the  ominous  pressure  of  the  folding- 


220      The  Death  of  Tintaglles. 

door,  and  its  fragments  roll  echoing  down 
the  steps.  Ygraine  leaps  up  with  Tintagiles, 
still  in  a  faint,  in  her  arms ;  and  she,  Bel- 
langere  and  Aglovale,  with  vain  and  mighty 
efforts,  try  to  push  back  the  door,  which  con- 
tinues to  open  slowly,  although  no  one  is 
heard  or  seen.  Only  a  brightness,  cold  and 
calm,  pierces  into  the  room.  At  this  mo- 
ment, Tintagiles,  suddenly  straightening  up, 
comes  to  himself,  utters  a  long  cry  of  deliv- 
erance and  kisses  his  sister,  while  at  the  very 
moment  of  this  cry,  the  door,  resisting  no 
longer,  shuts  abruptly  under  their  pressure, 
which  they  have  not  had  time  to  interrupt.] 

YGRAINE. 

Tintagiles !  .  .  . 

\They  look  at  each  other  in  amazement, 

AGLOVALE  {listening  at  the  door) . 

I  no  longer  hear  a  sound.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE  (wild  with  joy) . 

Tintagiles  !  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  See  !  See  !  .  .  . 
He  is  saved  1  .  .  .  See  his  eyes  !  .  .  .  you  can 
see  the  blue.  ;  .  .  He  is  going  to  speak.  .  .  . 
They  saw  we  were  watching.  .  .  .  They  did 
not  dare  !  .  .  .  Kiss  us  !  ...  Kiss  us,  I  tell 
thee  !  .  .  .  Kiss  us  !  .  .  .  All !  all !  .  .  .  To  the 
very  depths  of  our  souls  !  .  ^  . 

\^All four,  with  eyes  filled  with  tears^  remain 
closely  embraced^ 


ACT  FOURTH. 

[A  corridor  before  the  apartment  of  the  pre- 
ceding act.  Enter,  veiled,  three  handmaids 
of  the  Queen.] 

FIRST  HANDMAID  {listening  at  the  door)  • 
They  watch  no  longer.  .  .  . 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

It  was  useless  to  wait.  .  .  • 

THIRD   HANDMAID. 

She    preferred   that   it   should   be   done   in 
silence.  ... 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

I  knew  that  they  must  sleep.  ... 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

Open  quickly.  .  .  . 

THIRD  HANDMAID. 

It  is  time.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

Wait  at  the  door.     I  will  go  in  alone.     It  is 
needless  to  be  three.  .  .  . 


222       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

It  is  true,  he  is  very  little.  ... 

THIRD  HANDMAID. 

You  must  be  on  your  guard  for  the  elder 
sister.  .  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

You  know  the  Queen  would  not  that  they 
should  know.  .  .  . 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

Fear  nothing ;  I  am  never  easily  heard.  •  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

Go  in,  then  ;  it  is  time. 

\The  first  handmaid  opens  the  door  pru^ 
dently  and  enters  the  room,'\ 

It  is  nearly  midnight.  .  .  . 

THIRD  HANDMAID. 

Ah  !  .  .  . 

\A   silence.       The  first  handmaid  comes 
back  from  the  apartment^ 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

Where  is  he  ? 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

He  is  asleep  between  his  sisters.  His  arms 
are  about  their  necks ;  and  their  arms  are  about 
him,  too.  ...  I  could  not  do  it  alone.  .  .  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       2.23 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

I  will  go  help  you.  .  .  . 

THIRD  HANDMAID. 

Yes;  go  in  together.  ...  I  will  watch 
here.  .  .  . 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

Take  care  :  they  are  aware  of  something. 
.  .  .  They  are  all  three  struggling  with  a  bad 
dream,  ... 

\The  two  handmaids  enter  the  room, 

THIRD   HANDMAID. 

Tfaey  are  always  aware;  but  they  do  not 
understaiKl-  .  .  . 

\A  silence.     The  first  two  handmaids  come 
back  again  from  the  apartment^ 

Well? 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

You  must  come  too ;  ...  we  cannot  detach 
them.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

As  fast  as  we  undo  their  arms,  they  close  them 
on  the  child  again.  .  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

And  the  child  clings  to  them  harder  and 
harder.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

lie  is  resting  with  his  forehead  on  the  elaer 
sister's  heart.  .  .  . 


224      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

And     his     head     rises     and    falls    on    her 
breasts.  .  .  . 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

We  shall  not  succeed  in  opening  his  hands 
the  least.  .  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

They  plunge  to  the  very  depths  of  his  sisters' 
hair.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

He  clenches  a  golden  curl  between  his  Httle 
teeth.  .  .  . 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

The  hair  of  the  elder  will  have  to  be  cut 
off.  .  •  • 

FIRST    HANDMAID. 

The  other  sister's  as  well,  you  will  see.  •  .  • 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

Have  you  your  shears? 

THIRD    HANDMAID. 

Yes.  ... 

FIRST    HANDMAID. 

Come  quick ;  they  stir  already. 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

Their  hearts  and  eyelids  beat  in  the  same 
time.  .  •  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       225 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

It  is  true;    I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  blue 
eyes  of  the  elder.  ... 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

She  looked  at  us,  but  saw  us  not.  .  .  . 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

When  one  of  them  is  touched,  the  other  two 
start.  .  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

They  struggle  without  being  able  to  move.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

The  elder  would  have  cried  out,  but  she  could 
not.  .  .  . 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

Come  quickly ;  they  look  warned.  .  .  . 

THIRD   HANDMAID. 

The  old  man  is  not  there  ? 

FIRST   HANDMAID. 

Yes;  but  he  sleeps  in  a  corner.  .  .  . 

SECOND   HANDMAID. 

He  sleeps  with  his  forehead  on  the  pommel 
of  his  sword. 

FIRST    HANDMAID. 

He  is  aware  of  nothing;    and  he  does  not 
dream.  .  .  . 

15 


226       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

THIRD   HANDMAID. 

Come,  come ;  we  must  have  done  with  it.  .  .  . 

FIRST  HANDMAID. 

You    will    have     trouble    untangling     their 
limbs.  .  .  . 

SECOND  HANDMAID. 

True;    they   are   intertwined   like   those   of 
the  drowned.  .  .  . 

THIRD   HANDMAID. 

Come,  come.  .  .  . 

[They  enter  the  room.  A  great  silence,  broken 
by  sighs  and  dull  murmurs  of  an  anguish 
smothered  by  sleep.  Afterwards,  the  three 
handmaids  come  out  in  all  haste  from  the 
sombre  apartment.  One  of  them  carries 
Tintagiles  asleep  in  her  arms,  his  little  hands 
and  mouth  shrivelled  with  sleep  and  agony, 
and  flooding  him  all  over  with  the  flowing 
of  long  golden  locks  ravished  from  the  two 
sisters'  hair.  They  flee  in  silence  until,  when 
they  come  to  the  end  of  the  corridor,  Tin- 
tagiles, suddenly  waking,  utters  a  great  cry 
of  supreme  distress.] 

TINTAGILES  {froM  the  depths  of  the  corridor) . 

A-ah!  .  .  . 

[New  silence.  Then  the  two  sisters  are  heard, 
in  the  next  room,  waking  and  rising  un- 
easily.] 

YGRAiNE  {in  the  room). 

Tintagiles !  .  .  .  Where  is  he?  .  .  . 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       227 

BELLANG^RE. 

He  is  no  longer  here.  .  .  . 

YGRAiNE  {with  increasing  anguish) . 

Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  A  lamp  1  a  lamp  !  .  .  .  Light 
it  !  .  .  . 

BELLANG^RE. 

Yes  .  .  .  yes !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

[She  is  seen,  through  the  open  door,  coming 
forward  within  the  room,  with  a  lamp  in  her 
hand.] 

The  door  is  wide  open  ! 

THE  VOICE  OF  TINTAGILES  {almost  inaudible  in 
the  distance). 

Sister  Ygraine  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

He   cries  !  ...  he  cries  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  ! 

Tintagiles  !  .  .  . 

[She  rushes  headlong  into  the  corridor.  Bel- 
langere  tries  to  follow  her,  but  faints  on  the 
steps  of  the  threshold.] 


ACT  FIFTH. 

I 

A  great  iron  door  beneath  gloomy  arches. 
Enter  Ygraine,  haggard^  dishevelled^  with  a 
lamp  in  her  ha7id, 

YGRAINE. 

\Turning  back  wildly^  They  have  not  fol- 
lowed me.  .  .  .  Bellangere  !  .  .  .  Bellangere  !  .  .  . 
Aglovale  !  .  .  .  Where  are  they  ?  —  They  said 
they  loved  him,  and  they  have  left  me  all 
alone  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  Oh  ! 
it  is  true.  ...  I  have  climbed  up,  I  have  climbed 
up  innumerable  steps  between  great  pitiless  walls, 
and  my  heart  can  no  longer  sustain  me.  .  .  .  The 
arches  seem  to  stir,  .  .  .  \_She  leans  against  the 
pillars  of  an  archJ]  I  shall  fall.  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  my 
poor  life  !  I  feel  it.  .  .  .  It  is  at  the  very  edge  of 
my  lips,  trying  to  get  away.  ...  I  do  not  know 
what  I  have  done.  ...  I  have  seen  nothing ;  I 
have  heard  nothing-  .  .  .  Oh,  the  silence  !  .  .  . 
I  found  all  these  golden  curls  along  the  steps  and 
along  the  walls  ;  and  I  followed  them.  I  picked 
them  up.  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  they  are  very  beautiful ! 
Little  thumbkin  !  .  .  .  little  thumbkin  !  .  .  .  What 
did  I  say  ?  I  remember.  ...  I  do  not  believe  in  it, 
either ;  .  .  .  one  can  sleep.  ...  All  that  is  of  no 
consequence,  and  it  is  not  possible.  ...  I  do  not 
know  what  I  think  any  longer.  .  .  .  One  is  waked 
up,  and  then  ...   At  bottom,  come,  at  bottom, 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       229 

one  must  reflect.  .  .  .  They  say  this,  they  say 
that ;  but  the  soul  —  that  follows  another  road 
altogether.  You  do  not  know  all  you  unloose. 
I  came  here  with  my  little  lamp.  ...  It  was  not 
blown  out  in  spite  of  the  wind  in  the  stairway.  .  .  . 
At  bottom,  what  must  be  thought  of  it?  There 
are  too  many  things  unsettled.  .  .  .And  yet  there 
are  some  who  should  know  them ;  but  why  do 
they  not  speak  ?  \Looking  about  herJ]  I  have 
never  seen  all  this.  .  .  .  One  may  not  climb  so 
high  ;  everything  is  forbidden.  ...  It  is  cold.  .  .  . 
It  is  so  dark,  too,  one  might  fear  to  breathe.  .  .  . 
They  say  the  shadows  poison.  .  .  .  Yonder  door 
is  fearful.  .  .  .  \_She  approaches  the  door  and 
g7'opes  over  it^  Oh  !  it  is  cold  !  .  .  .  It  is  of 
smooth  iron  ;  all  smooth,  and  has  no  lock.  .  .  . 
Where  does  it  open,  then  ?  I  see  no  hinges.  .  .  . 
I  believe  it  is  embedded  in  the  wall.  .  .  .  One  can 
go  no  higher  ;  .  .  .  there  are  no  more  steps.  .  .  . 
\Uttermg  a  terrible  C7'y,'\  Ah!  .  .  .  still  more 
golden  curls,  shut  in  the  door  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  ! 
Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  I  heard  the  door  fall  to  just 
now !  .  .  .  I  remember  !  I  remember !  ...  It 
must !  .  .  .  \_She  beats  frantically  with  fist  and 
feet  on  the  doorJ\  Oh  !  the  monster  !  the  mon- 
ster !  .  .  .  You  are  here  !  .  .  .  Listen  !  I  blas- 
pheme !  I  blaspheme  and  spit  at  you  !  .  .  . 

[Knocking,  in  tiny  strokes,  heard  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  ;  then  the  voice  of  Tintagiles 
pierces,  very  feebly,  through  the  iron 
barriers.] 

TINTAGILES. 

Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine  ! 


230      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 


YGRAINE. 

Tintagiles!  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  . 
Tintagiles,  is  it  thou  ?  .   .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Open  quickly,  open  quickly !  .  .  .  She  is 
there !   .   .   . 

YGRAINE. 

Oh  !  oh  !  .  .  .  Who  ?  .  .  .  Tintagiles,  my  little 
Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  dost  thou  hear  me  ?  .  .  .  What  is 
it !  .  .  .  What  has  happened  ?  .  .  .  Tintagiles  ! 
.  .  .  Thou  hast  not  been  hurt  ?  .  .  .  Where  art 
thou  ?  .  .  .  Art  thou  there  ?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine  !  .  .  .  I  shall  die 
if  thou  dost  not  open  me  the  door.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Wait ;  I  am  tryiftg ;  wait.  ...  I  am  opening 
it,  I  am  opening  it.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

But  thou  dost  not  understand  me  !  .  .  .  Sister 
Ygraine  !  .  .  .  There  is  no  time  !  .  .  .  She  could 
not  hold  me.  ...  I  struck  her,  struck  her.  .  .  . 
I  ran.   .  .  .  Quick,  quick,  she  is  here  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  am  coming,  I  am  coming.  .  .  .  Where  is  she  ? 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       231 

TINTAGILES. 

I  see  nothing,  .  .  .  but  I  hear  .  .  .  oh  !  I  am 
afraid,  sister  Ygraine,  I  am  afraid  f .  .  .  Quick, 
quick !  .  .  .  Open  quickly  !  ...  for  the  love  of 
the  dear  God,  sister  Ygraine  !   .  .  . 

YGRAINE  {groping  over  the  door  anxiously) . 

I  am  sure  to  find  .  .  .  wait  a  Httle  ...  a  min- 
ute ...  a  moment  ... 

TINTAGILES. 

I  cannot  wait  any  longer,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 
She  is  breathing  behind  me.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

It  is  nothing,  Tintagiles  ;  my  little  Tintagiles, 
don't  be  afraid.  ...  It  is  because  I  cannot 
see.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes,  thou  canst ;  I  see  thy  light  plainly.  .  .  . 
It  is  light  by  thee,  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  .  Here  I 
can  see  no  longer.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Thou  seest  me,  Tintagiles?  Where  can  one 
see  ?  There  is  no  chink.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Yes,  yes,  there  is  one,  but  it  is  so  little  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE 

Which  side?  Here?  .  .  .  Tell  me,  tell  me  ! 
.  .  .  There,  perhaps? 


•232       The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

TINTAGILES. 

Here,  h^re.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  not  hear  ?  lam 
knocking.   .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Here? 

TINTAGILES. 

Higher.  .  .  .  But  it  is  so  httle  !  .  .  .  One 
could  not  pass  a  needle  through  it !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Don't  be  afraid ;  I  shall  be  there.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Oh,  I  hear,  sister  Ygraine  !  .  .  .  Pull !  Pull ! 
Thou  must  pull !  She  is  here  !  .  .  .  if  thou 
couldst  open  it  a  little  .  .  .  just  a  little.  ...  I 
am  so  tiny  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  have  no  nails  left,  Tintagiles.  ...  I  have 
pulled,  I  have  pushed,  I  have  pounded  !  .  .  .  I 
have  pounded  !  .  .  .  \She pou7ids  again  and  tries 
to  shake  the  immovable  door.~\  Two  of  my  fingers 
are  numb.  .  .  .  Do  not  weep ;  ...  it  is  iron.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES  {sobbing  desperately) . 

Thou  hast  nothing  to  open  it  with,  sister 
Ygraine  ?  .  .  .  Nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all ;  .  .  . 
and  I  could  go  through  ;  .  .  .  for  I  am  so  little, 
so  little.  .  .  .  Thou  knowest  well.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

I  have  nothing  but  my  lamp,  Tintagiles.  .  .  . 
There  !    There  1  .  .  .    \_She  beats  hard  on   the 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       233 

door^  with  the  help  of  her  lamp  of  clay,  which 
goes  out  and  is  broken.']  Oh  !  .  .  .  Everything 
is  dark  all  at  once  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles,  where  art 
thou?  .  .  .  Oh,  listen,  listen!  .  .  .Thou canst 
not  open  it  from  within?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

No,  no ;  there  is  n't  anything.  ...  I  can't 
feel  anything  at  all.  ...  I  can't  see  the  little 
bright  chink  any  longer.  ... 

YGRAINE. 

What  ails  thee,  Tintagiles?  ...  I  hardly 
hear  any  longer.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

Little  sister,  sister  Ygraine.  ...  It  is  no  longer 
possible.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

What  is  it,  Tintagiles?  .  .  .  Where  goest 
thou?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

She  is  there  1  ...  I  have  no  more  courage.  — 
Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine  ! .  .  .  I  feel  her  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 
Who?  .  .  .  Who?  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

I  do  not  know.  ...  I  do  not  see.  .  .  .  But  it 

is  no  longer  possible  !  .  .  .  She  .  .  .  she  is  taking 
me  by  the  throat.  .  .  .  She  has  put  her  hand  on 
my  throat.  .  .  .Oh!  oh  I  sister  Ygraine,  come 
here.  .  .  , 


234      The  Death  of  Tintagiles. 

YGRAINE. 

Yes,  yes.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES. 

It  is  so  dark  !  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

Struggle,  defend  thyself,  tear  her  !  .  .  .  Don't 
be  afraid.  .  .  .  One  moment !  .  .  .  I  shall  be 
there.  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles  !  answer 
me  !  .  .  .  Help  !  .  .  .  Where  art  thou  ?  .  .  .  I 
am  going  to  help  thee.  .  .  .  Kiss  me  .  .  .  through 
the  door  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  here.  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES  (very feebly). 
Here  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  sister  Ygraine.  .  .  . 

YGRAINE. 

It  is  here,  it  is  here  I  am  giving  kisses,  hearest 
thou?     Again!    again!  .  .  . 

TINTAGILES  (niore  and  more  feebly) . 

I  am   giving  them,  too  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  sister 
Ygraine  1  .  .  .  sister  Ygraine  !  .  .  .  Oh  !  .  .  . 
\The  fall  of  a  little  body  is  heard  behind 
the  iron  doorJ] 

YGRAINE. 

Tintagiles  1  .  .  .  Tintagiles !  .  .  .  What  hast 
thou  done  ?  .  .  .  Give  him  up  !  give  him  up  !  .  .  . 
for  the  love  of  God,  give  him  up  !  ...  I  no 
longer  hear.  ...  —  What  have  you  done  with 
him?  ...  Do  him  no  harm,  will  you?  ...  It 


The  Death  of  Tintagiles.       235 

is  only  a  poor  child  !  .  .  .  He  does  not  resist.  .  .  . 
See,  see.  ...  I  am  not  wicked.  ...  I  have  gone 
down  on  both  knees.  .  .  .  Give  him  up,  I  pray 
thee.  ...  It  is  not  for  myself  alone,  thou 
knowest.  ....  I  will  do  all  one  could  wish.  .  .  . 
I  am  not  bad,  you  see.  ...  I  beseech  you  with 
clasped  hands.  ...  I  was  wrong.  ...  1  sub- 
mit utterly,  thou  seest  well.  ...  I  have  lost  all 
I  had.  .  .  .  Let  me  be  punished  some  other 
way.  .  .  .  There  are  so  many  things  that  could 
give  me  more  pain  ...  if  thou  lovest  to  give 
pain ....  Thou  wilt  see.  .  .  .  But  this  poor 
child  has  done  nothing.  .  .  .  What  I  said  vvas 
not  true  .  .  .  but  I  did  not  know.  ...  I  know 
well  you  are  very  good.  .  .  .  One  must  forgive 
in  the  end  !  .  .  .  He  is  so  young,  he  is  so  beau- 
tiful, and  he  is  so  little  !  .  . .  You  see,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible !  .  .  .  He  puts  his  little  arms  about  your 
neck,  his  little  mouth  on  your  mouth  ;  and  God 
himself  could  not  resist  any  longer.  .  .  .  You 
will  open,  will  you  not?  ...  I  ask  almost  noth- 
ing. ...  I  should  only  have  him  a  moment, 
one  little  moment.  ...  I  do  not  remember  ... 
thou  understandest.  ...  I  did  not  have  time. .  .  . 
There  needs  hardly  anything  to  let  him  pass.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  hard.  .  .  ,\_A  long  inexorable  silence, 1^  — 
Monster !  .  .  .  Monster  !  .  .  .  I  spit  — .  .  . ! 
\_She  sinks  down    and  continues    to   sob 

softly^  with  her  arms  stretched  up  on 

the  doory  in  the  darkness,"] 

[Curtain.] 


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